With friends like these
Following on from my querulous whining on the subject of old age, I noted with satisfaction Robert McCrum’s Guardian piece pointing out that occasionally, people over the age of 40 have succeeded in writing books and poems and things.
And McCrum has a helpful explanation for how such miracles may come to pass:
… these books are invariably love stories, in the broadest sense, inspired by a person or a memory – in Twain’s case, of the Mississippi – for whom the writer calls up one final surge of creative energy.
Ah, yes. I think I’ll call up one final surge of energy and totter off downstairs to brew a pot of tea. If you don’t hear further, assume I expired en route to my desk.