Back in the 1970s, David Searls’s thoughtful essays shone regularly in The Sun until he drifted out of orbit for assignments bigger if not better. Now, blazing like a comet, son Peter shows up. He was nineteen when he wrote “The Map.”
— Ed.
The more people I talk to, the more I am alone. The closer my friends, the farther away I am. This loneliness is my only virtue, my identity. I have nothing in common with anyone. What I want to learn is not taught in school. The phone is ringing; I can’t answer it. It’s one of my friends, and I have nothing to say.
