I was hanging out with my late-onset baby boomer pals — the early 60s crowd — when the conversation turned to death, imminence of. Ten years earlier, few of our peers had died. Now, a death in our age cohort wasn't exactly news. "They are shooting at our regiment," a friend remarked.
They are indeed. The obituary pages, which we used to jauntily dismiss as "the Irish sports pages," speak more loudly now. Yes, it seems OK that British academic Richard Hoggart should pass away at age 95; he had a great life. More than 50 years ago he testified that D.H. Lawrence's earthy novel "Lady Chatterley's Lover" was "puritanical, poignant and tender," an opinion that freed the book from the shackles of censorship.
But why is comedian John Pinette dead at 50? Where was his biblically promised three score and 10? What about television executive Lucy Hood? Why should she die at 56?
What's this about Geoff Dyer having a stroke? Dyer, a great novelist who also wrote "Out of Sheer Rage," a madcap inquiry into D.H. Lawrence's life, was last seen bumming around the tennis courts at the Key West Literary Seminar. Just two weeks ago, he was writing from a Los Angeles hospital room, trying to regain his vision.
Dyer is five years younger than I am.
I have two wonderful friends whom I met freshman year in college. We've seen each other marry, have children and teeter on the verge of divorce. Now I realize that we are not so many years removed from attending one another's funerals, which will be occasions of great sadness for all concerned.
I don't know anyone who hasn't attended the funeral of a parent and failed to think: "I'm next."
What flows from this? In no particular order: I no longer read books I'm not interested in. I don't mind empty calories — quite the opposite! — but empty experiences grate on me more than before. If something is worth doing, it's worth doing today. If not, chuck it. My former colleague David Mehegan had a sign on his desk: Don't Postpone Joy.
