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The Lovemaking of I.B. Singer
- Abstract
When I was young I was sent among the old, to teach them. The job paid a small stipend, in return for which I had only to hearten a few old people for a limited time by getting them to write something down.
The first day, I arrived at the Center by bus, put my foot into a hole in the asphalt just below the curb, wrenched my ankle, and limped the rest of the way to the classroom. The pain of bad timing hurt worse than the ankle. Not only would I wobble and wince before my class, I felt psychologically impeded as well. How could I flee all the things I wanted to run from? Among them, my father’s pitiful request, “Don’t be beholden like me! Make yourself strong, independent!” He meant from others; I understood: from him.
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