Around the age of forty, I received a book from my father. It had gray covers, rather thick, unpretentious looking. Back then, I was convinced that time is patient, that other priorities existed, which could quickly appear to put off something that waited un-complainingly and much too quietly for its turn at the surface of the present. I flipped through it. My father never asked me if I had read it. He had done what he considered, in the depths...