At last we went out and stood on the lawn and watched the sun go down, and my father said, ''If it weren't for art, we'd have vanished from the face of the earth long ago.''
What art really is, though, and what a human being really is, and what the world really is. I just don't know, that's all.
Standing there, watching the sun go down into the sea, my father said, ''In every house there ought to be an art table on which, one by one, things are placed, so that everybody in that house might look at the things very carefully, and see them.''
''What would you put on a table like that''
''A leaf. A coin. A button. A stone. A small piece of torn newspaper. An apple. An egg. A pebble. A flower. A dead insect. A shoe.''
''Everybody's seen those things.''
''Of course. But nobody looks at them, and that's what art is. To look at familiar things as if they had never before been seen. A plain sheet of paper with typing on it. A necktie. A pocketknife. A key. A fork. A cup. A bottle. A bowl. A walnut.''
''What about a baseball A baseball's a beautiful thing.''
''It certainly is. You would place something on the table and look at it. The next morning you would take it away, and put something else there -- anything, for there is nothing made by nature or by man that doesn't deserve to be looked at particularly.''
Now, the sun was gone all the way into the sea. There was a lot of orange light on the water, and in the sky above the water. Legion of Honor Hill grew dark, and my father brought out a cigarette and lighted it and inhaled and then let the smoke out of his nose and mouth, and he said, ''Well, boy, there's another day of the wonderful world gone forever.''
''New day tomorrow, though.''
''What do you say we drive to the seaside and look at the ships from all over the world''