The more you read, the more you subscribe to the notion that sometimes books pick you, just as much as you pick them.
September 11th came and went the other day.
I made a mental note not to comment on it that day. Instead I paid homage to Pavoratti who lost his life a few days before. I knew I would return to this subject, just not on its anniversary. Because, as with most traumatic events, the days that follow are even darker.
It so happened that I had more time than usual to leisurely read. Draped in a thin hospital gown waiting my turn to be put to sleep for an endoscopy, I ingested pages in an effort to forget why I was actually there and what was about to take place.
As I anxiously inhaled and exhaled Benjamin Kunkel's, Indecision, it started to feel like the pages were coinciding with my subliminal thoughts. The main character, Dwight B. Wilmerding, in the midst of a midlife crisis, flashes back to that September morning hungover from ecstacy on his rooftop in Manhattan.
" At least there's two of them, I said. In a leftover effort at optimism I was trying to look on the bright side. 'With any other big building, there's usually only one, so--' Then I saw some white projectile streaking in from the southwest.
'Hey! Another plane!' I was delighted.
'They've sent it to rescue the other--or it must be coming to help all the..."
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