Must I confess to you, my son, that I’ve carried this book within myself from the beginning. That I live as if my existence was not real unless I said it—that is, narrated it in my book. What is it that forces me, allows me to hope, drives me to the certainty that I am only real when I abstract—subtract—myself from myself and go—where? Onto a few hundred printed pages? Will you be able, my son, to respect this form of existence for your father? Especially if it too becomes unreal? If he carries his book—his self!—within himself as nothing but a beautiful intention—worse yet, as a promise he doesn’t keep because he’s too weak to keep it. Not enough of a man?—or rather: too much of a man?

You’re barely born and I already know I’m going to disappoint you, my beloved child. You won’t grow up like other sons whose fathers are not myths but rather stand before them, chock-full of reality: real men. Dynamic. Reliable. Honest and modest. No fibbers; no bullshitters. The son of a cabinetmaker, a locksmith, a lathe operator sees his father doing useful things at his workbench. Happy the son of a farmer, a fisherman, a businessman, a mason. He sees his father in the realization of what he does, even if that activity obviously isn’t completely fulfilling and something ineffable urges him to another, utterly useless activity—breeding pigeons, for instance, or spending years meticulously building a scale model of the Eiffel Tower out of toothpicks. It’s as if he’s creating something beyond himself, beyond the shoemaker, mason, lathe operator. Nothing useful, perhaps, just something playful, but even so, a worshipful accomplishment. Mind you, in the worship of a dubious god.

Consider one thing, my son: even the sons of clerks and bureaucrats know that although their fathers produce nothing visible or tangible, they are—as my patron Witte would say—“plugged into the work process that keeps the whole shebang afloat.” It’s unfair of a son not to take any pride in the knowledge that his father is a postal clerk—without a doubt an honorable profession, but looked down upon out of class arrogance. At any rate, he—the son—sees his father leaving home with his briefcase and mid-morning snack, anxiously hurrying for fear of being late for “work.” And what are the feelings of the son as he sees his honorable progenitor off? Pride and deep respect, I would hope. Whatever form it takes, it’s well known that work ennobles and is—however badly—rewarded: it is the father whose work guarantees the existence of the family; even after his working life is through, his widow will continue to live off his work. Ask your mother: she’s in a position to describe it more convincingly than I can. She respects the myth of work well done and will try to plant it in you as well, thereby seeing to it that your father will not partake of the respect other sons show their fathers. But do they really show it? Or do they show it only when they watch their father building an Eiffel Tower from toothpicks in his spare time? When he’s worshiping the dubious god of idle play.