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I know I fall short.
No shit. This isn't confession, OK? I'm not your freaking priest. Last impressions?
Uh. Life is bigger than words. James Joyce turned a single Dublin day into Ulysses. Even then, he left an infinity of material out. You have to, even if you're Joyce. Writing is selection. Stuff winds up on the cutting room floor. So be it. You can't say everything. But you have to say something.
No, you idiot. I meant your last impressions of Switzerland.
Oh, right. Uh. Switzerland isn't America.
Yeah, I know. Switzerland isn't America. That doesn't sound like much. But it's something.
It's a slap in the face is what it is. Hey, I liked Switzerland. But all the subtle differences made it clear how parochial I am, how limited I am, how riddled with assumptions, how freaking American.
Yeah. A freaking American who thinks he's James Joyce.
We're flying back into the sun. I've got 9 hours left.
Screw you, pal. I'm out of here.
If I'm lucky, I'll finish Anathem.