I wasn’t cut from the same cloth as my father. In fact, it frequently appeared we had hailed from entirely different worlds. Where he was an expensive, expertly woven tweed of rich taupe and dark browns, I was more like a lightweight silk in shades of deep vivid greens and blues. Not to say I lacked integrity, or even masculinity, I hoped. I simply wasn’t born with stoicism, or a definitive calling in life, as he. I didn’t have the yearning to be known as the greatest, the most accomplished, or the most important; neither did I wish to dedicate a large chunk of my adult life to studying other people’s achievements. It wasn’t that I was incapable, or unintelligent, or at least my preference was not to see it so, it was that I simply couldn’t absorb or apply myself to that which didn’t fascinate me. I needed to be captivated and gripped by that which garnered my full attention, I wanted to be seduced by a subject and courted by its...