At eight-and-sixty my father does not complain any more. From time to time he adds a few words to my mother’s letters, where he hints with sufficient clarity that the main problem with the young (he considers me one of those, as is only natural) is that they tend to exaggerate without being aware of it. Implicitly, not even exaggerations are true. Nothing is true. There are words, the vehicles of exaggeration, and there is something that he even refuses to address as “reality.” The words bypass that something, and that is all. No need to elaborate. Every attempt to get involved with words is an exaggeration, vanity, and ultimately—lack of experience.

Even this brief description would be an exaggeration to him, for he would never admit that this was his position. He refuses to have a position, any position. He refuses to venture into speculation of any kind. His addenda to the long letters are thus a benign compromise, a necessity that has to do with an imperfect mode of communication he is unfortunately forced to accept. He does not complain about this either. But he would never write himself, let alone attempt to argue his point, or pretend that he wants to be understood.

There is another possible reading of his reluctant addenda, though. It is imaginable that he knows that I intuitively agree with him. Thus, he may be making modest attempts to remind me of our tacit agreement, without ever belaboring it. He may be enjoying our communion, our shared experience. And that would be very much like him—a proud old man. Assuming that this is actually the case, I never respond to his addenda. I only open my letters by saying: “My dear parents…” That is more than sufficient.

Addendum I (August 16, 1998)

It may be that senility is the ultimate price of rejecting all exaggerations, all attempts to come to grips with the unfathomable world around us. It may be that exaggerations serve a simple purpose: they keep us fresh while we are battering our heads against the wall of ignorance. Conversely, it may be that only exaggerations are true because the alternative is oblivion pure and simple.

Addendum II (May 2, 2014)

At eight-and-sixty, I understand my father much better than ever before. And especially on his birthday, for he would have been one-hundred and two today. Although I still complain on occasion, I do so much less than ever before. As I surmised that he had surmised thirty-four years ago, chances are that nothing is true. Absolutely nothing. Complaining is thus for the birds. But my father’s senile dementia is still beyond my reach. In this respect at least, I am with my mother. Clearheaded. Saddled with a working mind, that is. Which is why I cannot but hope for the only alternative to dementia I am aware of at present—enlightenment. But my father is my guide to this day, nonetheless. Stop complaining, for heaven’s sake!