“You are my son, whom I love. With you I am well pleased.” Few and widely spaced are boys whose fathers tell them that. So they cobble together a sense of themselves from other sources. Now they are men, divorced from the ceremonies of innocence, twisted by compensatory behaviours and lost in their lusts.
Ours was not a happy home. My father was violent and hyper-religious. He beat me with his belt while I lay draped across what was always a perfectly made bed, pants and underwear puddled around my ankles. Two of my three siblings, a brother and a sister, killed themselves.
A voice said, “Call the angels.” And angels came—angels enough to revivify William Blake, angels seen and unseen, women angels, men angels, child angels, a whole dance of them.
Does a man live who is more loved?