Pym is in the yard, in the bright February sun, looking up to the porch with a gentle rebuke for the wasted booty—all the hydrangea branches and the peanut shells that failed to compost—he must enjoy alone. He sits like a sparkling pin affixed with a jaunty angle on a gown of moss and raw umber. His effect is to heighten, to focus.
His is the worst kind of loneliness: pleasure that is not shared. He returns again and again to the ground, always finding something to lift with his mouth and toss into the air. Even Franklin naps inside a trapezoid of sunlight on the kitchen floor. We all ignore his bliss.
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