Tuesday, August 02, 2005

There's one really endearing detail

in Jonathan Franzen's essay in the New Yorker this week (the essay itself isn't online), I especially liked these sentences because they sound affectionate rather than self-lacerating:

My father was a saver of string and pencil stubs and a bequeather of fantastic Swedish Lutheran prejudices. (He considered it unfair to drink a cocktail at home before going to a restaurant, because restaurants depended on liquor sales for profits.)

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