This afternoon my daughter made a confession: the first time she read The Brothers Karamazov Fyodor Pavlovich's behavior in "The Old Buffoon" chapter reminded her of her grandmother's.
I nodded. I'd experienced a frisson reading that chapter myself. Of course, neither of us had any idea at the time that she was in the early stages of Alzheimer's disease.
We then proceeded to discuss how the be- the- center- of- attention- no- matter- how- big- an- ass- you- make- of- yourself gene had skipped me (for the most part), rendering me an Ivan, the observer in the family.
And then we agreed that all those Russians seemed awfully Southern.
My son, nearing the end of Part Three, is dead certain he knows who the murderer is.
With any luck, we'll be finished by the weekend.
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