". . . 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 . . .)