One reason that I love Roz Chast is that she has invented a wonderful character: her father. Chast has such mesmerizing ambivalence for this deeply anxious, neurotic man, so much compassion and exasperation. The guy can be in a tiny, tiny conflict--and still you're fascinated, because the artist is fascinated.
In "Father's Day Memory," Mr. Chast is at war with himself. He wants to instruct his daughter, but he can't find words. His sense of myopia is such that he can offer just two pieces of advice: "Carry your subway token in your hand, and always take care of your teeth." His greatest enemy is the Parachute Jump, at Coney Island--which seems to beckon to him, even as it maintains its own sinister aura.
The end of this story is tremendously moving; you suddenly realize you're reading a love letter, from the artist to a dead man. Everything is understated; not one word is out of place. I'm so inspired by Roz Chast.
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