There are things to relate to here, for sure. When you’re over 40, it’s hard not to question as-yet-unrealized aspirations. Rao’s caricature of American death-denial is cutting:
In America, you’re never old. If on your 90th birthday you venture an age-appropriate philosophical reflection, there will be a 92-year-old in the next wheelchair ready to tell you that you’re really still a kid with your whole life ahead of you. At 48, anything short of wanting to win an Olympic medal, a Nobel, and a billion dollars counts as being a quitter.
And yet, and yet. This essay struck chord after chord as I read it, but on reflection, it feels very much rooted in a childless person’s perspective. In some ways, Rao’s internal motion toward “settling,” toward an orientation that emphasizes history and memory, feels like something I’ve already gone through, because kids develop so fast and there are already multiple epochs of family life that have come and gone (the Thousand Nights of Wakefulness, the Great Bedwetting of 2017, &c). And in some ways it feels like something I’ll never fully experience, because I’m always going to be looking to my kids’ next steps; even if they don’t choose to have kids themselves, I could be lucky enough to see them start collecting whatever shreds of social security are left in 2066.
But that’s me. Rao is writing about himself, as he should; and it’s worth reading.
Currently reading: SEASON OF SKULLS, by Charles Stross.