Picture this December '13

I have a few books on my desk this month.

I've already read The Black Book, but there are a few chapters in this book that were a bit of a blur for me.  I had a cold when I was reading it and was much to drowsy (probably the cold medicine's doing) to read but did it anyway. 

I love Vikram Seth, haven't finished Two Lives yet, but so far it isn't as good as A Suitable Boy or An Equal Music. Women In Love... I can't help but laugh to myself when I'm reading this. Half way through it and so far so good. 

Everything Poe writes is pretty dark and really quite scary, but this little book, The Black Cat and other stories really is something.  More on this later. The other three I haven't read yet, but soon! 

Picture this: 15 August 2013

This week in books

It just had to be done! I really needed to revisit this old classic. Who doesn't like a good adventure? An immaculately written story about a much sought after map that details the location of a notoriously cunning pirate's treasure. The real adventure begins when the map falls into the hands of our young protagonist Jim Hawkins. He finds himself on a ship with an interesting number of characters. And it soon becomes apparent that Jim and his close friends are not the only ones after the treasure.  I couldn't stop reading and finished it in no time, though I did have to put up with feeling sleep deprived for the better part of this week... 

This one right here, The Masnavi by Rumi, is a masterpiece! As the blurb reads: "Rumi's Masnavi is widely recognised as the greatest Sufi poem ever written.." and what a poem it is! This is Rumi's method of portraying his love for God. It is a poem but explores various tales and Islamic teachings and Muslim history.  As the blurb says, this book is 'spiritually profound'. It's the background reading of the week. What does that mean? By no means does it mean that this book is boring and is therefore in the background. No siree! This is an intellectually and spiritually stimulating piece of work, thus it can't be read like any old novel in a single sitting.  It must be read, digested, pondered upon and then understood. 

This book I have just picked up from a friends shelf today. I was reeled in by the fact that it was written by Elif Shafak (I really enjoyed his book, The bastard of Istanbul). Then the blurb really had me. It's about an obese woman and her dwarf lover. They are sick of being stared at and decide they will switch roles. So the woman paints on a mustache and the dwarf puts on makeup (tell me that doesn't pull you in). The man embraces the world as it gazes at him, whilst the woman doesn't. He then compiles a 'Dictionary of Gazes' where he records the looks of the passers-by, in order to explore the boundaries between appearances and reality. I'm looking forward to this, the first few pages are so far so good.  

Gabriela, Clove and Cinnamon.

I was looking for something similar to Marquez’s works when I came across Jorge Amado’s ‘Gabriela, Clove and Cinnamon.’

The story is set in 1920’s Iléheus, a town on the coast of Brazil, in a region know as Bahia (how sensual is that name?).   

It explores a time, when Bahia is undergoing much change. Among others, there is political, commercial and social change.  The cacao trade is gaining momentum and some members of the town hope it will be host to the many trading ships that will be involved in the growing industry. The port is yet to be built and a great debate about whether or not it should be, forms the backdrop  of the focal story line, separating those inhabitants that favour the ways of old from those hoping for change.    

The main focus is on the owner of a popular bar, a Syrian man known as Nacib, who suddenly finds himself without a cook just before a very important dinner party.  In desperation, he searches the slave market in hopes of finding someone to prepare the important feast. He finds more than he'd hoped for, he finds Gabriela,  a curious but seriously alluring mulatto woman, whose characteristic strange and free-spirited behaviour confuses poor old Nacib. Amidst the scents of Bahian cuisine and political and social activities, the two fall in love, and in an attempt to possess and tame her, Nacib marries Gabriela. But the marriage is like a cage to the free spirited bird and as you might  imagine the beautiful and sweet love soon turns sour. Does Nacib lose Gabriela forever or does she learn to tame the somewhat wild and unruly character? Read and find out.

There is so much to write about this story and I don’t want to go on and on as I easily could. The seemingly endless array of characters, the bitter stories of adultery and murder, the numerous colonels, the political and social clashes make this an exotic, exhilarating and sensual read. 

Amado’s writing, which is at once both comic and pragmatic, transported me straight to Bahia. I could smell the sweet and exotic fragrances of the beautiful town which seems to be filled with the aromas of Gabriella's cooking and the heady scent of cacao. And just like the description of the small town in Tieta (Agreste), Iléheus is made so vivid and so real with all it's characters giving the town life, I can just imagine living there amidst vibrant colours and even more vibrant characters. I now love Amado nearly as much as I love Marquez.  What an incredible and majestic writer! It's as if his novels aren't fiction at all, but more like flowery and descriptive observations of an anthropologist with a penchant for descriptions, color and humor.    

Extract from Rumi's Masnavi (VI)

"Wealth has no permanence: it comes in the morning,
and at night it is scattered to the winds.
Physical beauty too has no importance,
for a rosy face is made pale by the scratch of a single thorn.
Noble birth also is of small account,
for many become fools of money and horses.
Many a nobleman's son has disgraced his father by his wicked deeds.
Don't court a person full of talent either,
even if he seems exquisite in that respect:
take warning from the example of Iblis (The devil) 
Iblis had knowledge, but since his love was not pure,
he saw in Adam nothing but a figure of clay."

- Jalal al-Din Muhammad Rumi

Oxford handbook of clinical medicine

I've thought a lot about it and I've decided that this little gem is my all-time favorite medical text! I'm sure I'm not alone on that one, this book being a bit of a celebrity in the medical world. Not only is it a comprehensive but concise text, containing all major medical and even surgical topics, but it also mixes it up with a little literature!  When I first saw it, I loved it straight away. It's small size and the clear way it presented disease and management was everything I ever wanted in a medical book. It cuts out the BS and really gets down to the nitty-gritty. Essentially it's like your revision notes have been made for you, all you have to do is read, underline/ highlight and memorize (I hate writing/highlighting my books..the most I'll do is use a pencil to underline but never more!) and ponder. However, it goes beyond being just a simple medical text containing facts and figures. The intelligence and compassion of the authors is evident from their exploration of the importance of not losing sight of the human aspect of medicine. The importance of seeing the bigger picture, the whole story, the patients story.  When I was first reading it and came across poems by Ted Hughes and mentions of Silvia Plath and James Joyce etc I nearly shed a tear of joy. Such a beautiful way of educating people, creating wonderful and compassionate minds. Such scholastic brilliance!

The authors try to open the mind of the reader to the world around them, to the those things that may be overlooked when one becomes lost in the factual details. Medicine isn't as simple as diagnosing and treating a disease, it goes way beyond that. Among other things, it's about understanding, empathizing, respecting and being compassionate. It's so easy to remove oneself from the emotional, spiritual and human side of things as one gets desensitized to illness and death. I see my peers (and I'm sure they see my faults too, but one doesn't see oneself as you do others) and wonder how it is that some of them are prone to treating some patients, for example patients with broken English, as if they were devoid of personality or opinions. It really gets me frustrated and angry and I wonder how they can be exposed to the fragility of life and yet be so compassion-less?    

Here's the extract of a Ted Hughes poem called The Lodger, that comes under the cardiovascular history section:

"At night on my pillow the syncopated stagger

Of the pulse in my ear: Russian roulette: 

Every heartbeat a fresh throw of the dice...

Hypochondria walked, holding my arm

Like a nurse, her fingers over my pulse...

The sudden lapping at my throat of loose blood."

It's so beautiful how it ties in so perfectly with the medical text.

I've recently upgraded from the the 6th edition to the 8th. I'm a bit late in doing this upgrade... the 6th ed. is somewhat dated... Anyhow I thought I'd write this post in honor of the old and the new!  I really hope my love for this book, will lead me to devour it in its entirety and so I will be well prepared for my finals! Here's to praying and hoping! *clink*

I have to confess that I'm a little bit of a cheater. You see I haven't been exclusive with my love, I have another lover on the side. Naughty I know, but does it make it better if I say that it's the cousin of the OHCM? Haha, it's the Oxford Handbook of Clinical Specialties! I love this little blue book too. It's just as good and has the same wise approach to teaching. Also there's an illustration of an apple tree on the inside cover of the book and each fruit on the tree has the name of a historically significant physician. From Hippocrates to Ibn Sina. Perfect!
 

Marquez and Magic

One Hundred Years of Solitude
“It's enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.” 

I was 17 years old when I first read this book. It was the first Marquez book that I ever read. I remember browsing through the shelves of the college library, desperately seeking a novel I could lose my self in. Those days were slightly depressing. I had no idea about what I wanted to do with my life, and the future was uncertain. I had only a single friend in the college (Hector, a seriously funny Mexican guy.  He though he was a real Casanova and would frequently grab random hot girls that passed him in college and start doing some salsa) and didn't really go out of my way to speak to anyone else. I liked being alone and enjoyed the fact that I spent my 3 hour breaks either reading or walking through Kingston. Hector, didn't have lessons on the days that I had my 3 hour break (sometimes it was four hours) and it took me about an hour (or more to get home) so going home wasn't really an option either. Sometimes I'd spend my time in the deserted library and at other times I'd go to the local Borders book shop. That was probably one of my most favorite things to do. The Borders was huge and what I loved most about it was that some of the book shelves were in an alcove-like area, framing a set of super comfortable armchairs, that you could sink into if you cared to sit down. They also had a coffee shop, so you could get your favorite beverage and curl up with a really good book. That's the sort of generosity I love. Those people really knew how to do it. They knew that some people just wanted to read a book that they either didn't want to/ couldn't afford to buy. Also some people needed a place to escape to. I spent most of the free time I had during that year in college, in the Borders. I read countless books, from random manga (they had HUGE collection) to best sellers and just about any book that sparked my interest when browsing the shelves.  

Anyhow, on one particular day, it was absolutely pouring outside and I didn't want to brave the weather, especially as I didn't have an umbrella with me, and the walk from the college to the town center wasn't a short one. So I decided to stay in the college library. I sat on a stool in the fiction section of the library, looking for something good, when I came across '100 years of solitude'.  I'd never heard of Marquez, but his name along with the blurb reeled me in. 

The story basically follows the lives of several generations of the Buendia family, who live in a fictional town called Macando.  The town was founded by Jose Arcadio Buendia, who uses his genius and tenacity to build the town and together with his wife Ursula they raise their family in Macando. One day a group of travelling gypsies passes through the town and with them they bring countless wonders; magnifying glasses, maps and compasses etc Things that the towns people have never seen or heard of. Jose Buendia becomes fascinated with the novel things he is introduced to and develops a desire to seek scientific knowledge, something that consumes him.  In the meantime his practical and capable wife manages the household and their growing brood.  As the town grows, so does the Buendia family and we watch as generation after generation live through different experiences such as birth, love, war, incest and spiritual experiences. Many things happen, I can't recall them all. But I do recall that at one point the entire town falls victim to a sinister disease that causes insomnia and subsequent loss of memories. Then there's the political stuff, the town loses some heart as it grows more bureaucratic and increasingly forgets the lawless yet harmonic living of the earlier days.       There isn't really a solid story line as in no real plot. However, overall, what we see is the rise and fall of the Buendia family as well as the town of Macando and ultimately we watch them spiral towards self destruction. I don't remember as many details of this story, as I would like to, but one characters that really made an impression on me (aside from Jose Buendia) was Remedios. Remedios, is an incredibly beautiful young woman, a great-great-great (?) granddaughter of Ursula and Jose. She is oblivious to the extent of her beauty, one that drives men wildly insane, and lives her life like a hermit, dressing in potato sacks and shaving her head. I think a young admirer even falls to his death, after slipping off a roof whilst peeking on her bathing. One day she is out in the garden and slowly and gently floats away into the sky. It's as if she was so pure and so innocent, that she was in fact other worldly. A being that transcended the mundane laws of this world.  

How handsome was he?
Taken from NY Times

What else? Well Marquez's incredible prose. It's as if his words cast a spell on me and it's not just the story that I want to know more about, I just want to read more and more of the words themselves. Real magic.

When I first read this, I was unaware of Marquez's popularity, so feel like I loved his work for what it was, rather than liking it for the popularity or something like that. I went on to read 'Love in time of Cholera', 'Leaf storm', 'Autumn of the patriarch', 'Of love and demons',  and 'Chronicle of a death foretold' and devoured them all. The magic realism, the unrestrained explorations of the dark side of human nature and the overall dream-like qualities of his novels had me enthralled and still do. I thought I had made an amazing discovery and desperately (although initially reluctantly, as I felt like I had a claim on Marquez and didn't want to share him with anyone, lest it spoil the magic)  urged my friends to share in the experience. However, I have yet to find someone who loves his works just as I do. I know there are probably lots of people out there who do, I mean someone who I know for real. One friend tried her best to read 'Love in the time of cholera', but explained on the phone to me: "Man, I tried so hard not to laugh at some points.. it's a bit dry and  can't really force myself to read the rest." Something like that. She did me wrong man.  Anyways I forced her to return what was obviously not appreciated.  Another friend said she'd skip the book and try to watch the movie, but she didn't like the accents....fruggidin fruschtigats the movie?  Hmm....

The man

I felt I totally understood the themes and the depth of Marquez's novels when I read them, but I'm sure I was too young and no doubt reading them now my understanding and views will change (I'm sure in years to come they will change again, as I grow older). But I'm glad I read them when I did. An impressionable time in my life, when my personality was yet to set. My mind was still open, untainted and fluid. I was open to the worlds that Marquez created and nothing was impossible or unrealistic. Love, sickness, death, physical pleasures, murder, incest and much more, I took it all in my stride. I was still in the process of trying to understand myself (still am) and like to think that Marquez's novels had a small part in shaping my character. I was in love with the hot, sweaty, dreamy and even sinister Latin America that Marquez explored and much like Jorge Amado (that's another story) he made me want to transport myself in time to witness this stuff with my own eyes.. but of course much of it, though undoubtedly drawn from reality and experiences, was fantastical.  

I recall reading somewhere that he penned his first work at the age of 17! Seventeen!!!! :O A real genius for sure. At one point a few years back I researched where he was living (I swear I'm not a hentai stalker) and started planning a trip to Columbia. I even checked flight prices etc and tried to figure out how to save for it and what excuse I'd use with my parents etc... I wanted really badly to meet Mr Marquez and just see what he was like in real life. I'm sure he has many more incredible stories within him that will never see paper. I want to hear what he has to say, what other stories he has and of course what inspires him. Man I would get him to write a personal message in all the books of his I own and of course I'd get a photo with him and we'd both be making the peace sign in it :D    

Dark, rainy days.

The cold has come. It's found its way into the house and though the radiator is on high, it's seeped into my bones. I feel slightly ill, a little feverish and quite a bit lethargic. It's still September but the rain is relentlessly pounding on the window. How I love you England.  I wish I had a real wood-burning fire. I'd sit so close my eyes would start stinging and my face would glow as the flames of the fire cast dancing shadows around the room. On days like this I think of writers like Orhan Pamuk. His novels undoubtedly have an underlying melancholy theme. Something like  'The black book'. The feeling I got when reading that is exactly how i'm feeling now. Drowsy and achy and little sad too. But my favourites of his books has got be 'My name is red', I loved it so much I wished I could be a part of it, somehow mold myself into the pages. That book cast shadows in my dreams too. That's what happens to me sometimes. I'll read something that ingrains itself so deeply within me that I'll start dreaming about the book. Usually I'm just an observer and scenes that I imagined will play themselves in my dreams. Other times, I'm not sure how to describe it, but it's like i'm an inanimate object in the book, something that is a part of the novel, like a pen for instance, but something that has no clearly defined character or role. Not like all the 'inanimate' objects in My name is red. I put that inanimate in speech marks because some of them, in Pamuk's books, are quite real and animated. For example a tree in a painting will have a narrative, something that is crucial to the story. You'll have to read it to know what I mean.

Oh, I just thought of what else it is that reminds me of days like this; Neil Gaiman's 'Sandman' series. Dark, almost gothic, graphic novels that create vivid images, ones that reach the furthest recesses of a readers mind. That series, the Sandman one, really go to me. I was only in year seven or eight, and the dark themes those graphic novels explored made me a little afraid... just a little. But still I loved them. It was like exploring a land that you've never even imagined could exist. The dream maker or rather dream himself is the main character in these novels, he seeps his way into peoples lives, through their dreams. sometimes it's hard to distinguish whether a character is dreaming, the events are so intertwines with real life (i.e. the comics real life). Dreams other name is Morpheus. I love that name. I don't remember the events exactly, but I know there was a lot of ancient Greek/ Asyrian/ other mythology mixed up in it. I really have to get a hold of those novels to re-read them again. it's been too long, much too long.   Gaiman's Stardust, is another of my favorites. I read it around the same time as the Sandman series and remember being surprised by how one man could create so strikingly different ( yet the same) stories. I think I read too much fantasy. Sometimes, for instance when I read Stardust, I wish that real life could be like these novels. That magic and myths etc were all real. I wish stars could converse with men and tell tales of world as it were thousands of years ago.

The Stardust film wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, in actual fact I quite liked it. But nothing compares to the imagination. The way you see things in your minds eye is something that can never be translated to a screen, it's near impossible. I mean, people like Gaiman and Hayao Miyazake are probably the type of individuals who get close enough to do something like that. They really do translate their imagination to paper or screen, but I bet what they see in their mind is much more incredible than their real life works.

Morpheus aka Dream 

http://www.arschkrebs.de/sandman/sandman.jpg

(not my image, it's from the above url)

          

The devil comes to Moscow

Image from: Manuscripts Bon't Burn

What if the devil did come to Moscow (or any other city) disguised as a magician? What if he and his minions played tricks and games with the elite and powerful inhabitants of the city, only to depart just as abruptly as they'd arrived and leave a chaotic and dumbfounded city in their wake?  What if the consequence were to shock a group of sceptics into thinking about their mortality and the existence of something beyond here and now?

Not exactly a summation of Bulgakov's "The Master and Margarita", but nonetheless a gist of part of the story.

Bulgakov paints a fantastically surreal picture of Moscow, as we follow the seemingly eccentric Woland (Satan disguised as a professor) and his devilish sidekicks (who are at once fascinating and quite funny too), fittingly named Behemoth, Azazello, Hella and Abadonna (there’s one other called Koroviev, not sure how he fits into that list).  They execute dangerous but humorous tricks on the inhabitants, revealing their deepest natures; either good or bad.   

Intertwined with this is an account of Pontius Pilate’s life, his thoughts, actions and moral deliberations during the trial of Christ and the devils role in all of this. The piece is penned by the ‘Master’, who has devoted his entire life to its creation. However censorship means that he is forced to burn his manuscript and is locked into an institution for the insane (a very powerful metaphor for the censorships that existed in Stalin’s Russia). His lover, Margarita, is distraught when he disappears, to the point that she requests Woland’s help in finding her lost lover. At this point ensues more craziness and we find ourselves following Margarita to a sensational ball for the damned hosted by Woland. More craziness ensues, as the devilish tricks get nastier and nastier, literally setting Moscow ablaze with fire!

I’ll leave it at that, not wanting to spoil too much for all of you haven’t read it yet (what the hell are you waiting for?  (Hehe is that a little pun I sense there?)).  The entire book is a bit of a whirlwind read, making it almost baffling at times. However the magical realism, the absurdly brilliant characters, the moral and existential explorations and just the narrative itself , make this an incredible book that almost makes your mind explode (I immediately had to take pen to paper for the out pour of literary genius (seriously!) that the book inspired).

Though my religious inclinations, do leave me feeling somewhat guilty (only slightly) for greatly loving a novel that explores the evil,  power, ingenuity and dare I say, allure (?!) of the devil, the guilt isn't enough to prevent me from thinking that this is probably one of the best pieces of literature I have ever got my hands on. I was hooked from the start. And after I finished it I kept taking it off the shelf to re-read certain chapters or excerpts of the novel, just because of the sheer brilliance of Bulgakov's writing style. 

I had to read on Bulgakov’s life straight after finishing the novel and he’s become a hero of sorts in my eyes. It’s evident from the book that it was written in a Moscow that was governed by a Stalinist regime and upon reading about Bulgakov I realised he was a victim of the harsh consequences of censorship. However, what really got to me was the fact that Mikhail had trained as physician, but after falling sick he turned to writing. Being a medic (and totally loving it), who has an incredible love for literature and writing, I aspire to, one day, write a novel that will deeply influence or entertain at least a handful of people. So upon reading about Bulgakov’s experiences my heart started pounding as I saw a vision of myself being a physician who also wrote epic novels on the side.     

It’s been glued to my shelf of legendary books and has a space beside it to accommodate Bulgakov’s other stuff.  Any who loves literary classics/ surrealism/ fantasy/ Goethe/ Dostoevsky, or just anyone who wants to read some think brilliant, please get yourself a copy.

I thought I’d note how I came across this book, as I found it mildly amusing when I thought over it:

I usually spend five minutes or so scouring the shelves of "cancer research", in my local high street whenever I'm there (which, because of University, isn't very often these days). However on this particular day, I was in a rush to finish my banking and get back to the car (damned HSBC queue meant my dad had been waiting impatiently in the car, for about an hour and a half or so, ringing me every 15 minutes to check if I'd "finished yet".). But as I semi-skipped/ jogged towards the car park, the thought that I might miss out on a really good find suddenly crossed my mind and I retraced my steps (albeit running this time), hoping that any good books on the shelves would be mine (there was only one other youngish guy, with too many piercings and even more aftershave, that I usually found fingering the kind of books I liked to read. The others were all little old ladies, who smiled oddly whilst attempting to be discrete about looking through the Mills and Boons). Luckily Piercings was nowhere to be seen and the shelves were mine alone. I found a favourite of mine that I'd already read (The map of love) and "The Master and Margarita". The cover was pretty plain, but I liked the name Mikhail, so was drawn to the book. I usually have a quick read of the first 1/2 pages of a book to see if I liked the authors style, but in this instance I had to rely on the blurb. I'm so glad I did. I was drawn into the story as soon as I started reading it, which I actually did as I walked/jogged back to the car. This meant a walk that would normally take about 5-7 minutes took me about 20 minutes! Though, when I finally got to the car, I had to hear a long lecture on time-keeping etc. I was so glad and excited to have made that stop and continued reading whilst my dad went on and on about the merits of waking up early and maintaining time etc etc.

Naghuib Mahfouz

He's easily one of my most favorite authors ever and I can read his books again and again and again. Naghuib Mahfouz's impact on the Arab literary world and the Arab world in general is indisputable. What's just as great or even greater, is the impact his work can have on the individual reader. Whenever I read any of his work I can't help but feel a deep sense of longing. I'm not sure what it is or how to describe it fully, but I feel great joy and despair all at once. It's definitely not an unwelcome feeling.

Seriously what does it take to be such a great writer? How do people like Mahfouz, Marquez, Bernieres (etc) all write so passionately, so beautifully so soulfully? It must be something deep within them, something innate and I'm sure it isn't something that can be learnt. It's not just the authors style I'm talking about here, it's the stories they conjure up the tales they tell. Incredible really. I so wish I could write half as well or produce such beautiful and though-provoking stories.

Mahfouz's 'Cairo' trilogy, 'Harafish' and 'Children of the alley' are my favourites.

Why Prufrock?

T.S. Eliot's 'The love song of J. Alfred Prufrock', played in the background of my secondary school life.....The hazy years of rote learning, dodging bullys, bunking and soggy school lunches.  Though I have many memories of different events and happenings, my fondest memories are of sitting at the back of my English class during the winter months, peering at the teacher through the steam that had accumulated due to an overheated radiator and girls soaked to the skin from rolling around in the snow. The slow drone of the teachers voice coupled with the soaring temperatures, transported me to distant parts of my mind.  Though I was young, my mind was able to delve deep into the desolation that exists within the human civilization and thoughts like these made for melancholy days. But by no means were they bad memories, in fact the very opposite was true. The melancholia made for some striking thoughts and memories.  Thoughts of the life ahead in the "real world", thoughts of love and loves hopelessness ( as Hamlet, Othello and Westside story confirmed), sad thoughts of growing old and frail...all whirled around in my head as I tried to stay focused on the teachers words.  The enthusiasm of my teacher, a young beefy man in his 30's, led us to read a whole array of things both on and out of the curriculum.. Sci-fi novels reminiscent of star trek, dark pieces on young people exploring suicide and tales about lonely old ladies waiting to die.. Pretty somber stuff for your early teens, but definitely things that shape more interesting characters.   The first time I heard Prufrock, I thought "wow, that's what life's really like".  So many wishes, so many desires, yet so little courage to act upon any of them. The blur, the sighs, the stifled society, the jumble of the mind, the juxtapositions, the indecisiveness, the want and need for romance and joviality... the optimism quelled only by the sharpness of reality when realization hits that sometimes you have to accept who you are, the society your in and though your one person on the inside, your entirely different to the world outside.  Prufrock is a great summation of the human condition, the loneliness that can exist even when your surrounded by tonnes of people, the regrets we will always carry and our desire for time which we do not have or control. I can't adequately sum up all the feelings I attach to this piece, but whenever I read it or think about it a wave of nostalgia washes over me and I can't help but feel that time is running out and I'm growing old.