Sakura at Okamoto Station Turning 50, as I did last month, is a sobering experience. Not literally in my case, though I know people who clamber onto that particular wagon at this time of life, in a futile attempt to smooth out the grim inscriptions of a hundred or more wrinkles—what might have once been called 'laughter lines', a term that now emerges as risible euphemism—or to repair the myriad other external signs of physical neglect and unhealthy eating. We only fool ourselves—though that is, I suppose, no slight achievement, and perhaps a sufficient delusion. No, it is the figurative sobriety occasioned in passing a half-century, evidenced by the tone of these lines, that has been most breath-catching these past few weeks, and not in a good way. This cloying heavy chill has, of course, been exacerbated by the unbearable lightness (to pilfer a nice expression from my youth) of the youth around me at the beginning of a new term in a new university. In one sense, I am...
Random and considered thoughts