"I shrugged. It was complicated. I didn't want the people-smugglers, those fucking ghouls, to double-cross Dad and throw his body into the water half an hour out to sea. But this was not just an altruistic outburst, it was a form of pre-emptive strike. I didn't want Dad's resentment haunting me from beyond the grave, or little waves of guilt lapping at my future serenity. But above all, it was to be a sentimental journey: if he was to die, either at sea or 'among his people' (whoever the fuck they were), I wanted to see it for myself, eyeball to vacant eyeball. My whole life I'd been pushed beyond rational limits by this man, and I was offended by the notion that I could be so implicated in his lifelong drama and not be present for the grand finale. He might have been his own worst enemy, but he was my worst enemy too, and I'd be damned if I was going to wait patiently by the riverbank, as in the Chinese proverb, for his corpse to float by. I wanted to see him die, and bury him and pat the earth with my bare hands.
I say this as a loving son."
- A fraction of the whole, Steve Toltz
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