Just finished Philip Roth's Everyman, which has the effect of confirming a recent speech act of my 85-year-old dad: "Old age is not for the faint of heart." Roth:
But now it appeared that like any number of the elderly, he was in the process of becoming less and less and would have to see his aimless days through to the end as no more than what he was--the aimless days and the uncertain nights and the impotently putting up with the physical deterioration and the terminal sadness and the waiting and waiting for nothing.
I have a little arthritis in my knee--a foretaste, evidently, of the feast to come. Well, I'm off to St Louis, by way of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, to watch some future and current Twins. Aimless, pleasant days.