Youth springs to life with embarrassment and  self-consciousness, age  oftimes  dawns  with boring self-obsession. I know nothing more tedious whether in myself or in others than ‘woe is me’ sentimentality.  I dislike myself when I fall prey to ‘meism’, and I try to avoid others who want to remind me of their own diminishment.  Too many of my friends have died for me not to tell myself everyday  how  grateful I should be for everything that has happened thus far.  Then again, it this very reflection little more than an over-indulgence in ‘meism’?

Polyannism is not  in my temperament, but I am immensely grateful for my pilgrimage of grace. How can one feel otherwise on a bright sunny Sunday  morning overlooking Lake Rosseau?  I have London’s Sunday Times spread out before me, and the tome that is the Sunday New York Times is neatly folded on the table,  Am I  in heaven? If not, this is what I want heaven to be.