In his great book Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire Edward Gibbon, in writing about the reign of Titus Pius, commented in passing that history was “little more than the register of the crimes, follies, and misfortunes of mankind.”
I remember having an interesting discussion with an old Jesuit priest in which I wondered whether a number of venial sins committed could ever add up to being as bad as one mortal sin.
In a perfect world the pen would always be mightier than the sword and intellect would always defeat brute force.
The spirit grows weary with the weight of woe in the world at large.
Another birthday has come and gone. I hear old Sam Beckett’s pessimistic shout: “We breathe, we change!
When I am in any great city I search out the bookstores and in them spend what are hours of pure pleasure.
A day is dulled and dimmed if it passes and I do not pick up a book of poems in my library, browse in some anthology, find a new poem in the latest issue of Poetry Review or The New Yorker or some other magazine or at least before my eyes shut glance at some old favourite lines from Hopkins, Walcott, Yeats, Carter or a score of other supreme masters of the art and craft of making poems.
Sometimes I travel up the Essequibo River to spend weekends in a house set on the bank in a clearing of white sand cut from the jungle.
In this unbrotherly time I wish to invoke again the name of Voltaire.
Nowadays I really only travel in the mind. Many blessings – no security checks; no immigration or customs hassle, instantaneous arrival at fascinating destinations.
Consider these aspects: ● The bedrock of marriage – You can generally recognize a good marriage, but it is hard to tie down the details.
There is nothing more valuable in man than an ability to write well.
My heart has grown heavy in recent times as I have contemplated what seems to be the gradual fading of the dream of West Indian unity.
The saddest sight in sport is to observe a marvelous athlete not so much go into decline as suddenly burn-out before one’s eyes.
I had a vivid dream of my father. When they come in dreams my mother and my father seem very real and I reach out to them.
At eighty eight years of age one must expect to factor attendance at funerals into one’s monthly (weekly?)
Yesu Persaud was a friend for more than 50 years. He was always helpful, and thoughtful in his help and advice, to my wife and myself.
Love of sport is woven into the fabric of my life.
Two impulses contend in me – one is to allow chaos to take hold and the other is to keep everything tidy and in good order.
I know this is a sad and awful way to start a new year but it needs to be said.
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