"Somehow, I understood, even as a kid, that I’d never learn the truth about my father directly, a man who hid the truth from himself so thoroughly, the hinges of his mind almost always welded shut but, lubricated by drink, sometimes swinging open as he exposed, then tried to protect himself from, his wounds like a cornered porcupine, its back to me, hissing, its needles extended, erect and ready to let fly."