Glyph Read Online Free PDF

completely stunned and befuddled face of Inflato floating over me. What I wrote:
    1) Mixolydian is not misspelled.
    2) Though the writing is young and, perhaps, overly exuberant, the story is solid and thoroughly and absolutely readable.
    3) Da-da is full of shit. 18
    Inflato looked at my eyes and then to Mo, swayed for a second, then fainted. His head made a thump when it hit the carpet.
tubes 1…6
    During the Second World War submarines terrorized the north Atlantic. Unsuspecting ships would be suddenly struck by steam-driven torpedoes, then sink to the bottom of the ocean, never seeing their attackers. But the submarines could stay submerged for only so long and then their batteries would fail and they would have to surface to recharge while running their diesel engines. My father was the unsuspecting tanker and I was the stealthy U-boat. My mother had somehow gotten him onto the sofa and was gently bringing him around. It wasn’t so much that I was afraid (what could he do to me?), but I wanted to dive, to make a couple of zigzags on my way to just beneath the layer, reduce my speed to a crawl, and creep away slowly. Who knows what was leaking out of the hole my torpedo had made in him? As he came to and focused on me, he tried to climb over the back of the sofa to get away. Mo told him to calm down.
    “Calm down? The boy’s a freak.”
    “Ralph is no freak. He’s our son. And he’s special. Ralph is a genius.”
    “He’s the devil.”
    “I’ve been giving him books and he reads them. He devours them. He doesn’t seem to sleep. He reads two, sometimes three books overnight.” Mo was smiling at me.
    “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
    “I tried, but you wouldn’t listen. I showed you his poem.”
    “This is just so unbelievable.” Inflato grabbed his head and squeezed it between his palms. “Ralph is a genius,” he said, staring at me. “He’s not retarded.”
    “No, he’s not,” my mother laughed.
    “So, what do we do?”
    Mo shrugged.
    “He understands everything I say?” Inflato asked.
    “He certainly does. In fact, he’s remarkably sophisticated. He has read Fitzgerald and Proust and Wright, and not only understands but comments on the novels in his notes.”
    I could see, as I stared into my father’s eyes, that he was recalling my presence at his visit to Laura’s apartment. He smiled weakly at me and said, “Ralph. Ralphy. Son. My child.” He came around the sofa and knelt in front of me. “Daddy loves you. Do you understand? I’m so excited to find out about your…” he searched for the word, “…talent. Daddy and Mommy love you very much. Do you understand?”
    “He understands, Douglas,” my mother said. “He understands more than we do. I don’t know what to do with him.”
    Inflato stood and assumed the posture of taking over. “First we have to have a doctor take a look at him.”
    “He’s not sick,” Mo said.
    “A psychologist, Eve. Maybe a psychologist can tell us what’s going on with him, how smart he is, and what we should do.”
    I put my hands out, asking for my notebook. Mo handed it to my father and he handed it, cautiously, to me. I wrote:
    Ralph knows a secret
    I could see a single, glistening bead of perspiration break out of his ample forehead. And behind the bead I could see the wheels turning, slowly at first and then even more slowly. I obliterated my message with my marker and watched him exhale a sigh of relief, but our understanding had been established.
donne lieu
    Everyone speaks of Thucydides, but Xenophon is dismissed as less than brilliant. But it is exactly his lack of brilliance that should have us remember him. His plainness is beautiful. His limitations are precise and astonishing. The Oeconomicus , a sort of codicil to the Memorabilia , is a remarkable work of mediocrity, but we still read it some 2,300 years later. What better subject for a student of Socrates to direct his scrutiny than the training of a housewife? Time has