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.

You’ve been born into a thorny conflict, my poor son. Even at the tenderest age, you’ll already be suspicious of your father because he’s been pumped up by a false myth. He is a high priest of that untrustworthy deity of idle play and will be shown the respect the clergy of all churches receive. But only as long as and to the extent that he is also plugged into the work process that keeps the whole shebang going. If he isn’t plugged in with some visible, tangible accomplishment—and you need good eyes to see it and good senses to grasp it—every post office clerk can look down on him as a pariah. God—not the god of idle play but the god of the upright, the REAL, TRUE God who keeps the whole shebang going—will spit him from HIS mouth.