When you think about it, as I've been doing just now, the amount of damage one can do in his own life, even when so much of his time is occupied with working full-time, raising children, and so on, is really pretty amazing. Somehow, we are able to find that rare slice of free time to devote to the purpose of irreparable self destruction. Ah youth! Conversely, when one is old and retired and has an overabundance of time on his hands (not mentioning any names), it seems that he can no longer so expertly manage anywhere near his former aptitude for self-inflicted catastrophe. Not that I'm complaining. I don't like catastrophe any more than anyone else. It just seems strange that when we have so little time at our disposal we should be able to do so very much more damage with it than we are able to accomplish with all the time in the world. Where did we find the energy? Successfully pouring a bowl of cereal seems sufficiently taxing for me nowadays. And then what to do with the thing when I've finished eating? Before nightfall, that is. Carefully executed betrayals, remarkably thoroughgoing indiscretions, faultlessly executed blunders seem wholly beyond my strength or grasp just now. All considered, I wish they always had been.
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