Of the four books I read while traveling recently, the most enjoyable by far was Michael Chabon's new collection of autobiographical essays entitled Manhood For Amateurs. Dig this splendid nugget.
"My father, born in the gray-and-silver Movietone year of 1938, was part of a generation of Americans who, in their 20s and 30s, approached the concept of intimacy, of authenticity, and open emotion, with a certain tentative abruptness, like people used to automatic transmission learning how to drive a stick shift. They wanted intimacy, but were not sure how far they could trust it to take them. My father didn't hug me a lot or kiss me. I don't remember holding his hand past the age of three or four. When I got older and took an interest in becoming a grown-up, it proved hard to find other, nonphysical kinds of intimacy with him. He didn't like to share his anxieties about his work, relationships, or life, rarely took me into his confidence, never dared to admit the deepest intimacy of all - that he did not know what the hell he was doing."
