We were studying English literature, Joseph Conrad in particular, specifically Lord Jim. It was a weighty tale, but Bentari and I, well, we found the reading light. Reading was one race that I could win from Ben, but we weren’t in a hurry to reach the last page—we were looking for Conrad’s gems. For instance, when I read this passage, lightning struck twice.

“It’s extraordinary how we go through life with eyes half shut, with dull ears, with dormant thoughts. Perhaps it’s just as well; and it may be that it is this very dullness that makes life to the incalculable majority so supportable and so welcome. Nevertheless, there can be but few of us who had never known one of these rare moments of awakening when we see, hear, understand ever so much—everything—in a flash—before we fall back again into our agreeable somnolence.”

The book fell flat to the desk and I grinned like a boy on Christmas. Conrad had that gift. He rattled on with such odd beauty. He practically rattled you to sleep. But then he had this way—this contrasting style where opposites made such sense together when he put them side by side. No one else could do that. Now, here it was again, and this time that “flash” of knowing hit me on the button.

I asked Ben later if he’d gotten to that passage yet. Of course, he hadn’t. Without hesitation, he reached for my text and I handed it to him, opened to page one-hundred-thirty, and I told him, “First paragraph, Chapter Thirteen, he’s cast his fleeting spell on me again! What do you make of it?”

His grey eyes raced over the page. His shadow smile appeared. He hung isolated in thought for a brief moment. Then he pointed to the page and said, “I love this man! This is the part that got me—right here. Why do you grin like Old Man Tinker, Dub?”

“Don’t you see, Ben? Conrad revealed you! He describes you! The only difference between this passage and you, is that you don’t return to somnolence! You always know in the blink of those grey eyes—in a bloody trice you make up your confounding mind—and you’re never blinking wrong!”

It’s not easy to make Bentari blush, and not easy to notice when he does. But I could tell. His shadow smile gave him up. I had gotten through to his deep heart again. He tried to make light of my appraisal, saying, “Well, here’s how I get through—it’s nothing, really. If my thoughts turn dull, I think of Boudicca. If I’m sad, I think of Tarmani. If I’m afraid—I think of Scheherazade.”[1]

“There you go, Ben. Lightning strikes again.”

Image: “Lightning over water” by William R. Curstinger.[2]

[1] Bentari had a nickname for everyone. I was “Dub,” after my middle initial “W.” His girlfriend was Boudicca, and Scheherazade was his mother. He called his father by his actual name—it was Tarmani.

[2] Photo used to illustrate a metaphor without the author’s permission and with apologies; found at: http://environment.nationalgeographic.com/environment/natural-disasters/lightning-profile/