Un post de pe 23 ianuarie al fostului director de la Nova Scotia Museum, unul din ultimii supravietuitori din Explozia de la Halifax. Tipul are 93 de ani si este blogger iar randurile de mai jos mi se par cutremuratoare. Intotdeauna m-am intrebat ce voi simti atunci cand imi voi da seama cat de putin mai am de trait. Imi aminteste de Desertul pentru totdeauna al lui Octavian Paler si de cateva din poeziile lui Adrian Paunescu, despre fiica sa.
“Nowadays, no matter how much I try to put off decisions until later, I must admit that everything seems to bother me. For example, my writing bothers me, because I have to be careful to be legible, even to myself. I am quite sure I have had a stroke (the final medical diagnosis is still pending), a small one I suppose, since I still drive a few weeks after my 93rd birthday.
At this age, I must say that I do delight in people’s amazement when I tell them how old I am. But under all this is the knowledge that I am the oldest male on either side of my family, maternal or paternal, and I know I must go fairly soon. I just don’t like the idea.
I’ve floated on the remark “Been there, done that” for some time now, but the notion that the moment is approaching when I can no longer say this bothers me. The truth is, I don’t want to go.
There are many reasons. For too long I have behaved as if I could postpone going indefinitely, and thus have so many things that I must do first. I don’t want my successors to find out how much I could have done that isn’t done, not by a long shot.
There are numerous notes and letters I must write. There are places I’ve wanted to travel, but never had the chance. Actually, each of you can, if you think yourself into my age, fill out the list. At least you can try to understand why I say that I hate to go. “