| But what good does that do anybody? “Why is it perfect?” you might ask, not unreasonably. But no sooner is the question posed than the absurdity of it reveals itself, and the person whose favorite record is the one under discussion -- me, in this case -- gets all defensive about it. “What do you mean, ‘Why is it perfect’?” one might say; you might just as well be asking why people love their mothers, or why it’s sad when autumn nears its end. “It just is,” one wants to say, but that’s not a good answer, and the arguments in favor of such an answer are weak and self-serving. |