My father loved every kind of machinery,
relished bearings, splines, windings, and cogs,
loved the tolerances between moving parts
and the parts that moved the parts, . . .
Nico drove with one hand caressing the steering wheel, the very picture of the bella figura so fundamental to Italian manhood. His other arm lay along the seatback, . . .
The Quiet Boy Noé Who Waited to Speak
He listened, very well.
He could not help himself.
Every sound he heard he remembered,
Making a great library of music inside himself. . . .