People tell me I should count my blessings. "You're handsome, Marc," they say, "handsome, rich, young, and intelligent." But then, given time and opportunity, people would always say inanities, I think.
Am I handsome? Honestly, I don't know, but it seems so; handsome enough, at any rate, that I'm allowed to live comfortably off my looks. I'm not rich, mind you, but the men and women paying for my company fling enough crumbs of their wealth my way. I'm still fairly young, too, but since when is youth anyone's personal achievement? Last but not least, I'm not sure about my intelligence. I'm not even sure being intelligent would be a blessing.
Anyway, I can't complain—my life is not unpleasant. I'm a bit bored, a bit melancholic, my mood often as black as the clothes I wear all the time.
And now my father has died. It shouldn't mean anything to me—for years we tried to have as few ties or dealings with each other as possible. But all of a sudden, everything comes crumbling down, and my life turns into an unwholesome mess...