Of endings and no beginnings
I am at that point in life that all I want is quiet. There is a certain sweetness in failure. A life I started has come to an end; definite, irrevocable end. First time, this end is not about a beginning. I always feared this, but having arrived, I feel what Kundera called an unbearable lightness. What burden did I lose? I guess it is my former self. Bounded forever by my upbringing, the crushing sense of responsibility coupled with a liberal faith in infinite improvability of others. From over the edge of life, I see how I got things mixed up: My grandfather's generation carried the responsibility because everyone else did, my father's generation believed in improvability because the going was good. But, at the same time, my grandfather would have believed only a few, distinguished by character, deserved attention; my father's generation would not have assumed the responsibility for others. Losing the faith is like losing myself. I have been a coalition-builder; somewhat...