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The sermon for May. 24, 2004 is: Svevo 3:02 a.m. I'm rereading Italo Svevo's "Zeno's Conscience," because of something my niece Emily said at the cemetary today. We brought flowers to my father's and grandfather's grave, and Emily, who's 3 years old, and I talked about death. Then we bicycled around the cemetary on my bike, Emily standing atop the ball-bust bar with her patent leather shoes with her arms tightly choking me, her hair covering my face and obscuring my peripheral vision; it was a good thing that my dad's dead, since he would've whaled the shit out of me for taking his only granddaughter's safety and well-being so cavalierly. I do still wish someone had taken a photograph of us, however: me, orotund, out-of-breath, a small planet or asteroid perched absurdly atop a bicycle; Emily, the prettiest 3-year-old in the world; both of us in our Sunday best, bicycling in the sun and the wind and the light, surrounded by trees and tombstones. When we got back to my car Emily took my cigarettes. "Why do you want to die?" said she. This isn't the first time she's said this to me (my sister's obviously coaching her), but this was the first time it was more than just incredibly cute. So, fuck. I think I'm quitting smoking. And that's why I'm reading Svevo's "Zeno's Conscience."
 
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