There’s something like a line of gold thread running through a man’s words when he talks to his daughter, and gradually over the years it gets to be long enough for you pick up in your hands and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself. It’s another thing, though, to hold up that cloth for inspection.
ATTRIBUTION:
John Gregory Brown (20th century), U.S. novelist. Catherine in Decorations in a Ruined Cemetery, ch. 4 (1994).
