half his life displaying talents he doesnât possess.
âRemember, Johnsonâs aphorisms are too true to dismiss as mere entertainment.
âThatâs what Iâm saying. Which half of my life am I about to waste? Which talents do I not really possess?
âLuckily, you can do anything.
Owen looked for a concrete answer in this reply.
âThat doesnât help. Which half of my life will I waste? Would I have wasted?
His father moved from the foot of the bed to the desk chair.
âWell, I suppose anyone who plunks down his chips and makes a commitment will have at least half a lifeâwhich is more than most. It will sort itself out. Johnson speaks to his dried-up ambition as a poet. But had he devoted his light to poetry, the world would have been robbed of its greatest critic.
âIâm giving back my scholarship.
âGetting injured wasnât your fault. It was in the line of duty, as they say.
âIâm giving back my scholarship and stopping out.
Owen watched his father decode Stanfordâs euphemism for student sabbaticals. Burr looked as if someone had taken something from inside him. As if he were now missing some hitherto unnamed organ that was nonetheless essential.
âWhat are you going to do?
âArt.
Owen had no idea where that came from, nor why it appeared as upper case: Art . He was a dilettante at best, someone whoâd taken a few years of drawing. Sketches of classmates littered the margins of his high school notes. His drawings looked real enough, but the art teachers never said he had talent. They picked their words carefully to encourage students like him, but not too much. Owen had no claim to the clutch of students whoâd pledged their lives to art before adolescence. Still. If he wanted to do something significant before he turned thirty, it was art, music, or sportsâand heâd never learned an instrument. He recognized this immediately for what it was: grasping at straws so his hands wouldnât be empty. And his expression betrayed vague ambitions, emboldening his father.
âThatâs not how art works, Iâm afraid. You donât just declare yourself an artist at twenty-one.
âIâm going to be an Artist.
âAnd Iâm going to be an astronaut!
âIf I devote the next twenty years to studying art . . . Iâve got to know which is the wasted half, and right now that means plunking down my chips for art.
âThatâs not an option. Youâll only have a few months to go from the time your prosthesis is ready until commencement.
âIâm sure as hell not going to have a glass eye.
âThe medical literature says the best ocular prostheses are acrylic.
âIâm not getting an artificial eye.
âWell, what? Youâre just going to wear an eye patch forever?
âYes.
âWe can talk about it while you recover.
âThereâs nothing to talk about. Have you ever seen someone with a fake eye? Itâs uncanny. People canât help but examine. The best-case scenario is no one noticing. Which is another way of saying that I would be lying to everyone. No. I had an eye. Now I have an eye patch.
âItâs just so . . . I donât know . . . cartoonish.
âJames Joyce wore an eye patch.
âNot by choice! These options werenât available to him.
âI canât do anything about that. And youâre not helping.
âIf nothing else, youâll need a prosthesis to get back in the water. Iâm sure Coach RudiÄ will want you to train your replacement in Colorado Springs and travel with the team to Athens. Who knows, you may even be able to contribute in certain situations.
âLike total darkness? In-the-land-of-the-blind type of thing? Iâd just be a distraction. You know what they call a particularly effective distraction?
âWhat?
âA mascot.
Owenâs father withered. He had no response. He
âRemember, Johnsonâs aphorisms are too true to dismiss as mere entertainment.
âThatâs what Iâm saying. Which half of my life am I about to waste? Which talents do I not really possess?
âLuckily, you can do anything.
Owen looked for a concrete answer in this reply.
âThat doesnât help. Which half of my life will I waste? Would I have wasted?
His father moved from the foot of the bed to the desk chair.
âWell, I suppose anyone who plunks down his chips and makes a commitment will have at least half a lifeâwhich is more than most. It will sort itself out. Johnson speaks to his dried-up ambition as a poet. But had he devoted his light to poetry, the world would have been robbed of its greatest critic.
âIâm giving back my scholarship.
âGetting injured wasnât your fault. It was in the line of duty, as they say.
âIâm giving back my scholarship and stopping out.
Owen watched his father decode Stanfordâs euphemism for student sabbaticals. Burr looked as if someone had taken something from inside him. As if he were now missing some hitherto unnamed organ that was nonetheless essential.
âWhat are you going to do?
âArt.
Owen had no idea where that came from, nor why it appeared as upper case: Art . He was a dilettante at best, someone whoâd taken a few years of drawing. Sketches of classmates littered the margins of his high school notes. His drawings looked real enough, but the art teachers never said he had talent. They picked their words carefully to encourage students like him, but not too much. Owen had no claim to the clutch of students whoâd pledged their lives to art before adolescence. Still. If he wanted to do something significant before he turned thirty, it was art, music, or sportsâand heâd never learned an instrument. He recognized this immediately for what it was: grasping at straws so his hands wouldnât be empty. And his expression betrayed vague ambitions, emboldening his father.
âThatâs not how art works, Iâm afraid. You donât just declare yourself an artist at twenty-one.
âIâm going to be an Artist.
âAnd Iâm going to be an astronaut!
âIf I devote the next twenty years to studying art . . . Iâve got to know which is the wasted half, and right now that means plunking down my chips for art.
âThatâs not an option. Youâll only have a few months to go from the time your prosthesis is ready until commencement.
âIâm sure as hell not going to have a glass eye.
âThe medical literature says the best ocular prostheses are acrylic.
âIâm not getting an artificial eye.
âWell, what? Youâre just going to wear an eye patch forever?
âYes.
âWe can talk about it while you recover.
âThereâs nothing to talk about. Have you ever seen someone with a fake eye? Itâs uncanny. People canât help but examine. The best-case scenario is no one noticing. Which is another way of saying that I would be lying to everyone. No. I had an eye. Now I have an eye patch.
âItâs just so . . . I donât know . . . cartoonish.
âJames Joyce wore an eye patch.
âNot by choice! These options werenât available to him.
âI canât do anything about that. And youâre not helping.
âIf nothing else, youâll need a prosthesis to get back in the water. Iâm sure Coach RudiÄ will want you to train your replacement in Colorado Springs and travel with the team to Athens. Who knows, you may even be able to contribute in certain situations.
âLike total darkness? In-the-land-of-the-blind type of thing? Iâd just be a distraction. You know what they call a particularly effective distraction?
âWhat?
âA mascot.
Owenâs father withered. He had no response. He
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