Ten Minutes At The Seaside

The mist began to clear as we crossed the county line from Kent into Sussex- and by the time we reached the coast the sun was shining in an almost cloudless sky. I was so tired I was feeling ill with it- but ten minutes on the beach at St Leonard's, sitting on a breakwater, getting my feet and trouser legs wet completely recharged my batteries.

Death Masks

Death masks are an unreliable guide to what people looked like when living. I can think of various reasons why this should be so-  reasons physical, reasons metaphysical.  There's this to be said for them, though- that they rarely flatter. For instance I'd not have guessed from his portraits that Beethoven's eyes were so very far apart.  James Dean looks like Brad Pitt, James Joyce looks like James Joyce only more scrunched up- and some are unguessable. Beethoven is a goblin, the Duke of Wellington is a toothless old saint, Cromwell could be any 17th century gent a little the worse for wear- though the warts provide a clue-  and the beatific soul with the enormous grin turns out to be Heinrich Himmler. 

Fan Shaped

 "Destiny is fan-shaped" writes Matthew's mother in the margin of one of her books- which is an elegant- and nicely visual- way of saying that our lives are neither random nor predetermined but at every point offer us a range of possible futures.