The nights are drawing in and low grey clouds brought a heavy gloom to a cold Sunday. I opened my copy of the Observer only to read Nick Cohen writing about the benefits of death. It's November all right.
Cohen doubts the value of extended longevity, given the decline in the quality of life that comes with ageing. I am constantly surprised to find myself to be in my late middle age and, at this time of life, I simply can't agree. I can only think that, whatever the indignities of old age, I will let go of the wonderful privilege of life with the greatest reluctance, resenting deeply the forthcoming oblivion of non-existence.
An extravagant love of life lies at the heart of a sense of justice; anger at the cruelties of the world, at those who, due to their psychopathologies, megalomania, or attachment to malign ideologies, would drain the joy of life from others. So let's relish the sensuousness of existence and when our time is up be very pissed off indeed.
4 comments:
Dang, that's good.
Here, here! Well said that man... [kicks herself out of seasonal despondency]
Hardly a ringing endorsement of life.
November is outside, cold, dank and soon, by mid afternoon, dark. Horrible month! Yet, two days ago I walked about in the drizzle on crowded streets, the grey sky slashed with white now and then and thought it beautiful, special.
But why then is there anything? Why not just nothing? That is the question.
You have gone quiet Peter.
It's work, Larkers. Been very, very busy.
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