Unless, of course, theres no such thing as chance; in which case Musa for all his age and servility was nothing less than a time bomb, ticking softly away until his appointed time; in which case, we should either optimistically get up and cheer, because if everything is planned in advance, then we all have a meaning, and are spared the terror of knowing ourselves to be random, without a why; or ebe, of course, we might as pessimists give up right here and now, understanding the futility of thought decision action, since nothing we think makes any difference anyway; things will be as they will. Where, then, is optimism? In fate or in chaos? Was my father being opti or pessimistic when my mother told him her news (after everyone in the neighbourhood had heard it), and he replied with, I told you so; it was only a matter of time? My mothers pregnancy, it seems, was fated; my birth, however, owed a good deal to accident.

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