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When Your Father Is a Magician, What Do You Believe?
A childhood spent under the spell of sleight-of-hand taught me skepticism, curiosity, and the habit of looking beneath appearances.
By day, he mesmerized patients with his easy confidence; by night, he dazzled guests with sleight-of-hand, conjuring coins from behind ears or producing endless scarves from his sleeve. Growing up in the 1950s, the world outside our house was already steeped in performance: Cold War drills at school, cocktail parties where adults wore masks of cheer while anxieties ran deep, a culture addicted to appearances. None of this was formal science, but it carried the same spirit as pulling apart my father’s tricks: looking beneath appearances, testing hunches, insisting that truth is not what dazzles but what endures.
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