THAT KINDER, GENTLER AGE

Back in the mid-nineties I lost touch with all my Berkeley friends. I never figured out why, but I do have a fair idea how. And yes, I miss them.
I shall not here go into the details.
After two decades it is all warm pee under the bridge.

None of us are the same as we were.

If nothing else, our peculiarities have become vastly different. I have hardly read Wyndham Lewis since Jack died, and when Pauline disappeared, Marguerite Yourcenar and Nadine Gordimer faded from my list.


I still re-read Nabokov and Simenon; the mood, you understand. My friend the bookseller revisits Dickens, my apartment mate remains committed to Sherman's Lagoon and Brideshead Revisited; it's the "atmosphere".

There are teas, tobaccos, foods, and spirits that, for what are probably very similar reasons, still hold my interest.


I was reminded of this, and it all came into sharp focus, when I passed a place where one year ago I did not feel entirely welcome.
It was a supernumerary feeling.

I still like those people.

But no.




I've been told that change is a good thing.
I am not entirely convinced.





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