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But then what is life but one big loose end that we strive mightily to keep from being tied up? In the several weeks since de Buitliér’s “confession,” time itself has snipped off or bundled up much that had become unraveled. And more.

Diantha and I are in love again. The beautiful people with their sleek lives little know what passion can burn in what seem the most placid, even humdrum of marriages. We are mindful of each other, gentle, considerate, and at times perhaps too careful in what we say and how we say it. In the past couple of weeks, Diantha has positively clung to me. It may be nothing more than a late-summer lassitude, but I doubt it. Or the possibility that she is pregnant again, which gives me great joy even though at my age it may look like she is having my grandchildren. All the rest is commentary, as the Talmud tells us.

Alphus has landed on his feet or on all four hands, as he likes to say. He has privately confirmed reports that the advance for book and film rights to his memoir amounts to nearly five million dollars. His new wealth has allowed him to rent a secured bungalow not far from Sign House. There he lives with his official keeper, a young graduate student in anthropology who travels with him and vocalizes his signing when necessary. Through a trust set up by Felix, he has bought a vacant lot close to the Arboretum where he hopes to build a habitation suitable to his needs, a leopard-proof tree house I am told.

The guy is suddenly everywhere — news interviews, talk shows, the cover of People magazine, a visit to the Oval Office. The public cannot get enough of him. With great fanfare and with Felix at his side, he has applied for “personhood,” with all the rights that pertain thereto. The problem is that the requisite agencies to grant such a thing are not in place, not to mention the legal hurdles.

From the heat of the debate that has flared up — apparently another round in the culture wars — you would think the imminent fate of civilization hung in the balance. The usual arguments are trotted out: If chimpanzees are admitted as members of the human family, will dogs be next? What about cats, canaries, snakes, pet rocks? One respected theologian has asked, “Does he have a soul?”

It begs the question whether any of us have a soul, other than the one we might fashion for ourselves out of the vicissitudes of life. By that measure, Alphus may well be more soulful than a lot of people.

His friend Ridley has also landed on his feet. Though he completed only a couple of years at Vanderbilt, his flair for mathematics is such that he has been admitted to Wainscott at a graduate level. And while he still “hangs” with Alphus, I’m told he has found or been found by a young woman who takes up much of his time.

Speaking of which, Doreen has been delivered of a bouncing baby boy, which is the good news. The less than good news for me is that she wants to stay home and raise the child the old-fashioned way while helping her husband with his ministry in a small church a fair distance from Seaboard. This happy event necessitated a visit on my part to our Human Resources Department to begin the process of hiring someone to replace the dear woman. When I used the word secretary, the efficient person in charge informed me that the proper title for the position was administrative assistant. To no avail did I point out that if the nation can have a secretary of state, why could I not have a plain secretary? Surely that title carries more weight and dignity. You don’t find anyone called an administrative assistant of defense.

Merissa and Max are now very much a couple. We had them over for a cookout not long ago. She remains quite irrepressible. “Max and I are getting married, aren’t we, Max?” she announced as we sawed into the thick steaks I had done with lots of fresh oregano on charcoal.

Max smiled and nodded and kept chewing.

“And we’re going to have lots of babies.”

Max sipped wine and raised his glass. “Whatever you say, darling.”

Professor Laluna Jackson remains