I wrote the following in an e-mail to somebody last night,
but I see no reason why it shouldn’t be made public.
‘It isn’t so much being alone that bothers me. Sure, I get
lonely sometimes, but I like having my own space and I’m an optimist. What
really scares me witless is getting old, even though I know all the cultural,
psychological and metaphysical reasons why it shouldn’t. But it does. It’s that
image of the wizened figure slumped in an armchair with his pale, waxy skin,
his wisps of fine white hair, his misshapen body that functions poorly and ever
under protest, and his damp eyes drooping inexorably into lifelessness. I don’t
want to become a weak and ugly lump that can no longer pursue its quest, while
the fires of action continue to rage unabated inside. What sort of an existence
is that? I sometimes envy those who grow gracefully from one age to the next,
accepting each with equanimity. I can’t because my psyche never kept pace with
the flow of time. Maybe that’s my greatest failing.
Somewhere deep inside me the optimist still stirs, telling
me that I have one major adventure left before I reach that stage. And the
horse might talk.’
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These posts are getting a bit miserable, aren’t they? OK, go
back to the conversation I wrote with Sarah’s mother. I think And have you given due consideration to the
possibility of polluting my water table? is a genuinely funny line, but I
fear you might have to be English to appreciate it.
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