(no subject)
"A going out in spirit," he said, and looked at me as though he expected me to understand what he meant. I didn't know what he meant. The disappointment was too much for him, and I did not hear from him for ten years. I couldn't really call it a letter. More like he took a scrap of paper and shoved it in an envelope. On the piece of paper he had written, What have you done with yourself? I decided not to answer. There was a return address. It had been postmarked from a place near Kobol College on Gemenon. When I looked him up later I found out that he had taken a position as a professor of ethics. Some ethics, I thought, and filed the note away in the letter box.
There are plenty of books that Bill Adama hasn't read recently; there are only a few in his personal library that he hasn't read at all. The idea was to ration them out slowly -- a few pages a day -- except now he remembers why he hadn't read this particular one sooner.
The detachment of the narrator irked him two years ago, when he got the book. Now it makes him angry.
In his booth, Adama takes off his glasses and rubs his hand over his face. Before he can stop the thought: I'm too old for this.
He closes the book and takes a seat over at the bar, ordering -- a little stiffly -- a gill of golden.
There are plenty of books that Bill Adama hasn't read recently; there are only a few in his personal library that he hasn't read at all. The idea was to ration them out slowly -- a few pages a day -- except now he remembers why he hadn't read this particular one sooner.
The detachment of the narrator irked him two years ago, when he got the book. Now it makes him angry.
In his booth, Adama takes off his glasses and rubs his hand over his face. Before he can stop the thought: I'm too old for this.
He closes the book and takes a seat over at the bar, ordering -- a little stiffly -- a gill of golden.