locked it. Then I went to my hi-fi cabinet and searched through my CD collection until I found what I was looking for: Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Scheherazade.”
I felt quite blissful as those first few haunting bars filled the room. Then, sinking onto the couch, I promptly burst into tears.
XVI
Something about that drunken afternoon in the pub and the excruciating final curtain in my flat never quite left me.
Jimmy’s words had a profound effect on me, even though I believe him to be the most wickedly misogynistic man I have ever met. It was, I believe, the first time in my whole life that I’d been genuinely changed by something said to me. Because I acted on it. That’s the operative point. Once you act, all hell breaks loose. Dithering, which is my usual way, makes other people believe they can tell you what to do. They can, and they will, if you let them.
After Archie left, I spent some time licking my wounds.
Then I woke up to my life. My autumnal life, all covered in ivy.
I took early retirement, sold my flat and emigrated. Crazy as it sounds, I moved to Rio de Janeiro, where I now live. I run a small business which never fails to turn a profit. Alongside my pension and my cash pile from selling up in London, this means that for the first time in my life I am affluent.
Every morning when I wake up I look at my wife, a bright, beautiful Brazilian in her thirties who positively bubbles with joie de vivre within minutes of waking up.
The thing I most love about her is that she has no ambition at all except to be happy. And in this respect she is my perfect mirror-image. We drink coffee, we have lunch, we go dancing. I’m learning the samba. We sit on the terrace in the evenings over tête-à-tête dinners, then we go to the cinema. In the summer, which is practically the whole year, we go to a beach house she has up the coast. We swim and throw parties for a myriad of friends, all of whom adore me (as I “adore” them) and call me Jacques because no one can say Chuck.
I don’t miss Chuck at all.
I am fifty-one, but my life has only just started. I’m conserving my energy and keeping fit. My wife wants three children.
Sometimes I wake in the night. I lie there listening to my wife’s breathing. It’s a reassuring sound. On certain nights I can also hear the surf coming in. I know I could not be a happier man. Yet I often think of Archie and her heroic madness. In spite of her confusion, it was Archie who saved me.
We need the mad people to help us break through the barriers, even though, once they disappear, they leave us tainted. Our love for them cannot be eradicated. It flourishes in the ground like wild garlic, and when the nights are still, there’s a lingering scent.
People set off in life expecting bright, breathless dawns, followed by reflective, calm sunsets. They shouldn’t expect things to run smooth. They shouldn’t expect their hearts to be spared. Why? My conclusion may seem simplistic, but nonetheless, here it is:
Love doesn’t work!
My Gift, My Dictation
----
LIFE IS A RARE MYSTERY. When we look beyond our lives, we see only darkness. If we could turn time on its head and go back to the time before we were born, we would see a commensurate darkness there too. Beginnings hold an even greater mystery than endings, for death can only exist when preceded by life. Yet surely the first and the last darkness is the same?
For that reason, whenever I go to a funeral, I spare a thought for all those who have never been born, those who—whether by coincidence or misfortune—will never win the lottery of birth.
I should also add that the only thing of any importance is the short flash of light in which we, the momentary owners of an ordered mass of atomic substance, are free to express ourselves through language. Life is like a planet, an island, an albatross riding its fixed trade winds. On this speck of rock lives a people besieged by its own lack of understanding, a people of
I felt quite blissful as those first few haunting bars filled the room. Then, sinking onto the couch, I promptly burst into tears.
XVI
Something about that drunken afternoon in the pub and the excruciating final curtain in my flat never quite left me.
Jimmy’s words had a profound effect on me, even though I believe him to be the most wickedly misogynistic man I have ever met. It was, I believe, the first time in my whole life that I’d been genuinely changed by something said to me. Because I acted on it. That’s the operative point. Once you act, all hell breaks loose. Dithering, which is my usual way, makes other people believe they can tell you what to do. They can, and they will, if you let them.
After Archie left, I spent some time licking my wounds.
Then I woke up to my life. My autumnal life, all covered in ivy.
I took early retirement, sold my flat and emigrated. Crazy as it sounds, I moved to Rio de Janeiro, where I now live. I run a small business which never fails to turn a profit. Alongside my pension and my cash pile from selling up in London, this means that for the first time in my life I am affluent.
Every morning when I wake up I look at my wife, a bright, beautiful Brazilian in her thirties who positively bubbles with joie de vivre within minutes of waking up.
The thing I most love about her is that she has no ambition at all except to be happy. And in this respect she is my perfect mirror-image. We drink coffee, we have lunch, we go dancing. I’m learning the samba. We sit on the terrace in the evenings over tête-à-tête dinners, then we go to the cinema. In the summer, which is practically the whole year, we go to a beach house she has up the coast. We swim and throw parties for a myriad of friends, all of whom adore me (as I “adore” them) and call me Jacques because no one can say Chuck.
I don’t miss Chuck at all.
I am fifty-one, but my life has only just started. I’m conserving my energy and keeping fit. My wife wants three children.
Sometimes I wake in the night. I lie there listening to my wife’s breathing. It’s a reassuring sound. On certain nights I can also hear the surf coming in. I know I could not be a happier man. Yet I often think of Archie and her heroic madness. In spite of her confusion, it was Archie who saved me.
We need the mad people to help us break through the barriers, even though, once they disappear, they leave us tainted. Our love for them cannot be eradicated. It flourishes in the ground like wild garlic, and when the nights are still, there’s a lingering scent.
People set off in life expecting bright, breathless dawns, followed by reflective, calm sunsets. They shouldn’t expect things to run smooth. They shouldn’t expect their hearts to be spared. Why? My conclusion may seem simplistic, but nonetheless, here it is:
Love doesn’t work!
My Gift, My Dictation
----
LIFE IS A RARE MYSTERY. When we look beyond our lives, we see only darkness. If we could turn time on its head and go back to the time before we were born, we would see a commensurate darkness there too. Beginnings hold an even greater mystery than endings, for death can only exist when preceded by life. Yet surely the first and the last darkness is the same?
For that reason, whenever I go to a funeral, I spare a thought for all those who have never been born, those who—whether by coincidence or misfortune—will never win the lottery of birth.
I should also add that the only thing of any importance is the short flash of light in which we, the momentary owners of an ordered mass of atomic substance, are free to express ourselves through language. Life is like a planet, an island, an albatross riding its fixed trade winds. On this speck of rock lives a people besieged by its own lack of understanding, a people of
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