Over at NYT Magazine, Etgar Keret slips us an essay on teaching his son the art of forgiveness:
The minute we got into the taxi, I had a bad feeling. It wasn’t because the driver asked me impatiently to buckle the kid’s safety belt after I already had, or because he muttered something that sounded like a curse when I said we wanted to go to Ramat Gan. I take a lot of taxis, so I’m used to the tempers, the impatience, the armpit stains. But there was something about the way that driver spoke, half-violent and half on the verge of tears, that made me uncomfortable.
