Dewey is becoming engrossed in a consideration of human wandering – including the idea that peoples on the move make a natural adjustment toward death, which the super-civilized have lost. He lives a life, which he could never quite finish and never quite abandon.
A friend calls him, a compass without a needle, and Lightfoot himself wonders, Why do I become restless after a month in a single place, unbearable after two? Nothing prods the making of art like ambivalence, and Dewey is lucky to have his roaming impulse countervailed by a strong compulsion to return. Then, whenever that is satisfied, the malaise of settlement demands an antidote to the antidote. The emotional consequences of transcontinental dislocation, at least in the mind – immersion? or tourism? – has much to do with making Dewey, eventually, a Frittat unlike any other.
On the contrary, Dewey builds, or wishes to, a case for a cagey optimism that does not require a repression of difficulty, but rather, seeks a vigorous engagement with it. The best way to attract the blessings that the world is conspiring to give us, Lightfoot insists, is to dive into the most challenging mysteries – an inspiration to become wildly disciplined, fiercely tender, lustfully compassionate Masters of Rowdy Bliss.”