Dear Grandpa,
I wish you were around so I could tell you know that I appreciate the things that you appreciated, and that I love the things that you tried so desperately to get me to love. I attribute my excellent taste in many things to you, and shamefully hide my terrible taste in many things so as to not taint your good reputation through proxy.
Philosophy is nearly over and I am seriously considering switching my major, just so I can continue with these discussions that so remind me of you. I was only fourteen when you died, so it's not as if we had incredibly deep conversations about art, God, or capitalism--but I have your old books. I know what you read. I've seen your highlighted sections in The Book of Ancient Verse. I would have loved to hear these opinions of your straight from your well-spoken mouth instead of having to infer them from your sketchy notes in your old primer.
Promise me someday that you will bend my ear off again about the mazurkas, about Humoreske, about Franz Liszt in all his holiness, about the brilliance of Michael Crichton, about German orchestras, and about the importance of staying polite in any regard.
Finally, I am sorry for hating Traumerei. I want you to know I love it now.
From the artist previously known as your granddaughter,
Me
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4 comments:
This is great.
I'd give anything to talk with him for hours, just like I'm sure you would. He would love Finley, too.
Argh.
Maybe one day, he'll learn to love Starry Night.
This made me cry. Just so you know. <3
I was 23 when I sat down with him and told him I was sorry for doubting his wisdom as a dumb teenager.
he was someone I could ask anything because he cared about so many things and was more intelligent than anyone ever knew. The greatest thing he taught me is to that he cared more about me than what we were talking about.
I sound like a freaking idiot in my comment. der der der.
long day at work.
He loved you guys so much!
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