it’s not a spoiler to tell you that the gentleman in question (as in A Gentleman in Moscow) at the very onset of the book, is sentenced to permanent house arrest in the Metropol Hotel in Moscow. But he is nothing if not resourceful and well educated, refined and disciplined.
Like us, the lucky ones. Being confined to barracks, quarantined, self-isolated or locked down—whatever—has been a revelation to most of us—you--for various reasons. I have a couple of writer friends who have completed a new book, other friends who have gained weight, some who have established relationships on Skype or Zoom, oh yes, and some who have set up a weekly appointment with sourdough bread (very demanding). I’m sure they have all made discoveries about themselves, especially if they had not been accustomed to being alone most of the time. Each of us, of course, is unique.
As you know, I had to get used to constant company—my challenged son who came to live with me (since mid-March; it’s now the end of August) for our mutual safety and for my older son’s convenience--less to do to watch over us, though he and his wife were very good about providing us with groceries until the delivery service became prompt and reliable.
But my significant learning curve was not how to live with someone again. it was farther-reaching than that. By this time I know i’m not immortal but mortality seemed a long way off, even as all my elderly family and friends went off without me. I’ve said before that I feel like a duck in a shooting gallery as I look around to see who’s missing. It seemed so leisurely and random who got picked off and who stayed. It seems more arbitrary now.
As you know, i’ve ben trying to go through my files for what will probably be my last shipment to the University of Manitoba archives. I’m getting pickier now and so are they. I’m discovering how many of my bits and pieces of paper are intended for my personal re-use: ideas and outlines and sketches and unfinished work—all, all to be perused and pursued or tossed—almost all.
My decisions now are governed by how much time i think I have left. There’s still lots of stuff but I need another half a lifetime, at least, to take care of it. I have to choose my priorities and then make time for them in what has become an unexpectedly busy schedule, which includes more nap-time than formerly.
The good news is that, like the gentleman in Moscow, I have joined The Confederacy of the Humbled. I finally have no illusions about my place in the pantheon of creation, and I long since recognized the fact that I am part of the compost heap in the garden of Canadian literature. In other words, I am humble at last. (It’s about time, isn’t it?)
Remember Milton’s definition of fame (in “Lycidas”, 1637): “Fame,that last infirmity of noble mind.”
Yup.