I am living proof of this: two-pack-a-day chain-smoker for twenty years, glass of Scotch in my hand — I thought it was what serious writers did — and I loathed calisthenics, never jogged, my idea of physical exercise was cursive writing. And here I am about to turn 84 — it’s like the pudgy kid winning the pole vault.
It’s also an age when anxiety is swamped by gratitude. The plain goodness of life — the pleasure of getting out of bed and accepting the gift of one more day — I didn’t feel this when I was in my early 20s and writing Poor Me poems about a lonely alienated hero but I feel it now. The soft breathing of the sleeping woman next to me, the hike to the kitchen, the smell of coffee.
Originally written in April 2026
