Free Measure of My Days by Florida Scott-Maxwell Page B

are over I improve hardly at all. The acute headache gone, a middle-sized one is always there. This is what is called taking things slowly. I do not exist, nor do I understand the ebb and flow of energy. I never have, and doctors understand it so little that they disregard it. Or truer to say they regard it as the patient’s personal folly and no business of theirs. They may be right, and the patient longs to be equally superior but has to say, “It may not make sense, but it makes me!” As being too well brought me to the low place I now occupy I could curse my excessive reactions, but just because life is baffling it stirs one to artistry. It would clear my mind if I knew why a major operation at eighty-two stimulated me to an increase in vitality so convincing that now I have none.
    I recoil from the idea
that one must be compensated in another world for the hardness of thisone. If this world is almost incomprehensible we are almost unteachable. Even tragedy barely makes us feel; its frequency may require the protection of not feeling, this is true, but thinking about tragedy barely affects our judgement. War follows war almost, not quite, as though no one had noticed the last war. Every aspect of tragedy must be the bones supporting the rest of life, the bravery, the drama and delights, and the calm, and all the small pleasures and beauties. What I cling to like a tool or a weapon in the hand of a man who knows how to use it, is the belief that difficulties are what makes it honourable and interesting to be alive.
    I am uncertain
whether it is a sad thing or a solace to be past change. One can improve one’s character to the very end, and no one is too young in these days to put the old right. The late clarities will be put down to our credit I feel sure.
    It was something other than this that hadcaught my attention. In fact it was the exact opposite. It was the comfortable number of things about which we need no longer bother. I know I am thinking two ways at once, justified and possible in a note book. Goals and efforts of a lifetime can at last be abandoned. What a comfort. One’s conscience? Toss the fussy thing aside. Rest, rest. So much over, so much hopeless, some delight remaining.
    One’s appearance, a lifetime of effort put into improving that, most of it ill judged. Only neatness is vital now, and one can finally live like a humble but watchful ghost. You need not plan holidays because you can’t take them. You are past all action, all decision. In very truth the old are almost free, and if it is another way of saying that our lives are empty, well—there are days when emptiness is spacious, and non-existence elevating. When old, one has only one’s soul as company. There are times when you can feel it crying, you do not ask why. Your eyes are dry, but heavy, hot tears drop on your heart. There is nothing to do but wait, and listen to the emptinesswhich is sometimes gentle. You and the day are quiet, and you have no comment to make.
    I wish I could remember
that Blake said, “Any fool can generalize”. I generalize constantly. I write my notes as though I spoke for all old people. This is nonsense. Age must be different for each. We may each die from being ourselves. That small part that cannot be shared or shown, that part has an end of its own.
    T here is a word
I have never found. It is a word for the thing most precious to man. Perhaps it is man’s essence. Then why is there no right word for it? Pride, honour, both seem near, but they have too many aspects that are wrong. Soul comes near too, but it is seldom used in the way I mean. Perhaps we are still bringing the reality the word expresses into being, so we live italways but are not ready to name it. It is self-respect, but also the basis of self-respect. There is no reason why I should boggle at this phrase as though it did not say what is needed to be said, yet I must for it does not say enough.
    The admonition “Have a proper respect for