By April 16, 2020 No Comments

He was a man for whom taking a com­pli­ment was the hardest thing in the world. It was patho­log­ical. He would be hes­i­tant to admit it, but there it was. An unpleasant truth, often unat­tended and sup­pressed but still known.

He squirmed awk­wardly and ground his teeth at every flat­tering remark, or lyrical waxing, or sung praise. Even mere well-wishing seemed embar­rassing and unde­served.

It was, prob­ably, a reflex of his protes­tantism, you see, for there was none right­eous and his aware­ness of an undu­lating vain­glory and boastful pride was for­ever a hateful mark and secret token of his repro­ba­tion.

And, so it was, that he grinned appre­hen­sively with vise­like jaw and balled fist, straining to give thanks how­ever truly thankful, a con­flicted and knowing imposter both in the world and within his own soul.

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