Back to this issue of not having enough time to write all the books I could. I was reminded yesterday of a sonnet by Keats (although I got it mixed up with another one by Pope) that starts like this:

“When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain”

Even way back at first encounter with this, my high school self thought, Hey, come on, buddy. Easy with the egomania. But in the last six lines, where the great sonneteers always blossomed out, he pivots to the subject not of time and art but of time and love, and rings all the bells. I’m not making comparisons! But my fears about ceasing to be don’t revolve around writing, art, or work of any kind that won’t get done. People? A different story.

By the way: no post tomorrow. Road trip to lay eyes on a new family member.