I had inherited what my father called the art of the advocate, or the irritating habit of looking for the flaw in any argument.
I'd been told of all the things you're meant to feel when your father dies. Sudden freedom, growing up, the end of dependence, the step into the sunlight when no one is taller than you and you're in no one's shadow. I know what I felt. Lonely.
My father, to whom I owe so much, never told me the difference between right and wrong; now I think that's why I remain so greatly in his debt.
When... I told my father I wanted to be a writer, he had asked me to consider my unfortunate wife, who would have me about the house all day 'wearing a dressing gown, brewing tea and stumped for words'.
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