With a smiling face the toddler mimics that cancer cough slated to have his father dead by next month and, although the father insists that his wife stop trying to stop the child, he storms away with the intent to make her feel guilty for letting it happen.
The divine conquers the devil: even in celebrations of evil (making concentration campers do overtly unproductive work like carrying salt bags back and forth) belly laughter is possible.
M. A. Istvan Jr. squandered the precious energy of youth writing papers to get degrees in narrowness—all to become a craven specialist complete with hunched back, a mere reactor trained so severely that the ability to think for himself (without, say, the spur of a book) has been lost. If only he did not know that he was doing so at the time, he would be much less depressed about having squandered a decade on projects for which no appreciation is forthcoming. Unfortunately, he did know at the time. Even more unfortunately, merely complaining about it at the time proved an empty response to such knowledge. Visit michaelistvan.com or pw.org/directory/writers/m_a_istvan_jr_phd