". . . much is passed on, you see. Oh, not the
surface—the face is due to my mother's mother,
who was by all accounts a stunner—but the other
side, the hidden legacy. For me it comes in a love of
feathered headdresses, and abiding dreams of flight . . .
". . . remember that swans are mute. He couldn't have
given a warning even if he'd wanted to, though by then
he'd given up trying. Because no one is more fixed by fate
than the gods. Thunder and lightning and tides, yes:
but we need only stories to hold them. Cages of words,
each one a sharp sliver of bronze, pinning them in place forever . . .
". . . so I can't blame him for a momentary lust
instantly quenched and eagerly forgotten.
He was my father. And despite the way that inevitably
turns out, it means something to me . . ."
(. . . and I'm listening, trying hard to understand. I don't even know why I want her . . .)