In “Buoyancy,” a short story in Richard Russo’s collection The Whore’s Child, a professor named Snow arrives at a country inn and encounters a nosy hostess, Mrs. Childress, who expects him to entertain other guests:
"Well I don't know these particular people," Mrs. Childress said, ... "but they were quite delighted to learn we'd have a distinguished professor of American history in our midst. I warn you in advance that we're all bracing for a weekend of scintillating conversation."
"Ah," said Snow, whose discipline in fact was literature, "I'm retired, I'm afraid."
Mrs. Childress blinked, seemingly confused.
"I no longer scintillate," he explained, "though of course I used to."
I suppose even the most scintillating among us must occasionally relish a chance to suppress the sparkle. I do not always scintillate but I am sometimes the cause of scintillation of others. Today, for instance, I inspired scintillation simply by making tuna melts for supper. I haven't seen the young men so excited about a meal since I served the Christmas sauerbraten, which required dozens of complicated steps over days and days of preparation. The most difficult step in making tuna melts, on the other hand, is finding the can opener.
Tomorrow is another day. Today, let someone else do the scintillating.
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