Mene, Tekel

Dear You,

The day Gatsby reunites with his beloved, Daisy, the narrator, Nick Carroway observes that she is a flibbertigibbet and wonders why Jay doesn't see how far she has fallen short of his enormous dreams. Well, isn't that dramatic irony for you?

And isn't it the case with us all? In the end, doesn't Life itself fall short of our youthful dreams?

In the St. Petersburg Times, even the obituary section is a good read. Now and then, a writer turns one death notice into a little biography, and I read with no little jealousy how remarkable someone else's life has been. "That could have been me," I think, "if only . . .."

It is tempting now and then to make of oneself the hero of a story: "Sipping his coffee on the lanai, the morning forming itself in growing splender in all three directions he could see around him, Paul went over his List of Possibilities for the day." And several pages (chapters? Could this possibly be sustained?) later: "He leaned against the cushions and poured an unwise third glass of zinfandel, trying to decide whether to draw the drapes against the fading light. 'The middle of March already?' he sighed."

Okay, I agree. Way too Prufrock. Better to just get on with it. Still, I have to wonder if that Times writer, some day in the (distant?) future, will choose me.