I envy my younger self. There he is, getting off a plane in London, back from L.A and the Oscars, sun-tanned and confident, flush for the first time in his life, everything in front of him.
Having worked in a hospital and having witnessed both the seriously injured and the terminally ill find their way back to their old dispositions, I suspected that, once humour began to surface in your diary entries, whatever the condition of your body, your mind would would reframe your existence and would once more express itself creatively. Each one of us has to find our own reasons to live. Some people manage to survive and that is all. Despite the strong unfavourable odds, you have done more than simply endure. You are alive and it shows in everything you write.
In a short story, titled 'The Other', the writer Jorge Luis Borges, then in his dotage, has a chance meeting with his younger self. For the older Borges, it is February, 1969. He is in the city of Cambridge, near Boston, sitting on a bench beside the Charles River. The younger Borges is under the impression that he is in Geneva, also seated on a bench, beside the Rhône. For him, it is sometime around 1914.
The pair debate whether their meeting is a dream and, if that is the case, then which of them is the dreamer. The younger of the two is naturally more opinionated and idealistic. He is incredulous that his counterpart possesses only a hazy memory of the works of Dostoyevsky and is incandescent at the suggestion that the poet Walt Whitman might be capable of expressing a falsehood. The older Borges, who is more philosophical, attempts to update his junior on five decades of family news, mostly deaths and marriages. He is wrong in his claim that the poetry he has written will bring more joy to himself than it will to others. I loves his verse and return to 'Manuscript Found in a Book of Joseph Conrad' more than I do to any other poem.
It is touching how the older Borges assumes a fatherly role when attempting to dampen down his younger self's naïve expression of socialism, and to reassure him in regard to the gradual decline of his memory and his eyesight; the latter is so bad that he can barely see and is waiting for a carer to return to the bench and escort him home. Privately, he concludes that, for the younger Borges, their encounter has been a dream, but that for him it has been a real occurrence.
I have gone in search of my younger self, in Kensington Gardens, near to what is often referred to as Round Pond, though it is actually shaped more like an ornate tea tray. If he is anywhere to be found, then it will be there. He will be 19 or thereabouts. It will be Autumn. The air will be damp and uncomfortably chilly. Parts of the park will be badly waterlogged. He will be alone on a bench somewhere off the beaten track. It will be lunchtime. Referring to the contents of a Tower Records bag, acquired on Kensington High Street, I will inform him that R.E.M. are from Athens Georgia, in the US and not, as he believes (influenced by the spectacle of Bill Berry's bushy Mediterranean eyebrows) Athens, Greece.
“I still own that compact disc,” I will tell him. “It still plays. Only old men buy them now.”
I should tell him that his life turns out as he thinks that it will, but that would be cruel and I doubt that it would change very much. As Borges concluded “There was no point in giving advice, no point in arguing, because the young man's inevitable fate was to be the man that I am now”.
Sounds like some kind of adjustment Hanif, maybe now , with some luck and a lot of determination, you can continue your recovery with a helpful and realistic perspective....I think, from my own experience, the adjustment is the most important part......love the piece ! Thanks xxxx Jane
Nice one, Hanif. I just turned 76. Half of the friends of my youth are dead. The other half have ailments. I have ailments. I find that we end up talking about our medications and blood tests and visits to the emergency room in between railings about politics. And yet it is still possible to laugh in spite of everything. You're an example to us all, my friend.
The young self talking to the old self: what a great way to do this, plus a great anecdote. Might nick this idea😄. My cousin, btw, shortly after he reinvented himself as a plus-four wearing rustic chap, was trampled by cows (he survived with bruises and cracked ribs). Oh and happy belated birthday, mate!
Hanif, my eyes prickled as I read your story. Then the end...tears of joy, that you can say now: "I’m happy" ...and...
“I’ve got a lot to look forward to,” says the young Hanif.
“You certainly do.”
Wishing you and your family - and this great family of readers - a joyful break at the end of a troubled year, and best wishes for health, happiness nad peace in 2025.
I turned 77 a couple months back and am having some relatively minor health issues that nonetheless remind me of how short our time is here…something that doesn’t really come to mind when we are younger does it?
Thank you for your piece today, it is so very lovely. I am happy to read as well that you seem to be at peace as you start your 8th decade and, whether you know it or not, are spreading that peace to those who might need it most. Bless you.
As someone who knew you then and now, I read this doing my shopping and burst into tears in the middle of King Street.
Happy Birthday Hanif.
Having worked in a hospital and having witnessed both the seriously injured and the terminally ill find their way back to their old dispositions, I suspected that, once humour began to surface in your diary entries, whatever the condition of your body, your mind would would reframe your existence and would once more express itself creatively. Each one of us has to find our own reasons to live. Some people manage to survive and that is all. Despite the strong unfavourable odds, you have done more than simply endure. You are alive and it shows in everything you write.
In a short story, titled 'The Other', the writer Jorge Luis Borges, then in his dotage, has a chance meeting with his younger self. For the older Borges, it is February, 1969. He is in the city of Cambridge, near Boston, sitting on a bench beside the Charles River. The younger Borges is under the impression that he is in Geneva, also seated on a bench, beside the Rhône. For him, it is sometime around 1914.
The pair debate whether their meeting is a dream and, if that is the case, then which of them is the dreamer. The younger of the two is naturally more opinionated and idealistic. He is incredulous that his counterpart possesses only a hazy memory of the works of Dostoyevsky and is incandescent at the suggestion that the poet Walt Whitman might be capable of expressing a falsehood. The older Borges, who is more philosophical, attempts to update his junior on five decades of family news, mostly deaths and marriages. He is wrong in his claim that the poetry he has written will bring more joy to himself than it will to others. I loves his verse and return to 'Manuscript Found in a Book of Joseph Conrad' more than I do to any other poem.
It is touching how the older Borges assumes a fatherly role when attempting to dampen down his younger self's naïve expression of socialism, and to reassure him in regard to the gradual decline of his memory and his eyesight; the latter is so bad that he can barely see and is waiting for a carer to return to the bench and escort him home. Privately, he concludes that, for the younger Borges, their encounter has been a dream, but that for him it has been a real occurrence.
I have gone in search of my younger self, in Kensington Gardens, near to what is often referred to as Round Pond, though it is actually shaped more like an ornate tea tray. If he is anywhere to be found, then it will be there. He will be 19 or thereabouts. It will be Autumn. The air will be damp and uncomfortably chilly. Parts of the park will be badly waterlogged. He will be alone on a bench somewhere off the beaten track. It will be lunchtime. Referring to the contents of a Tower Records bag, acquired on Kensington High Street, I will inform him that R.E.M. are from Athens Georgia, in the US and not, as he believes (influenced by the spectacle of Bill Berry's bushy Mediterranean eyebrows) Athens, Greece.
“I still own that compact disc,” I will tell him. “It still plays. Only old men buy them now.”
I should tell him that his life turns out as he thinks that it will, but that would be cruel and I doubt that it would change very much. As Borges concluded “There was no point in giving advice, no point in arguing, because the young man's inevitable fate was to be the man that I am now”.
You would not have said "I am happy" a year ago. Amazing spirit.
"And I'm happy" was a stunning thing to say. Happy birthday, just gone. And those Irish cows are bloody frightening, you missed a bullet there.
I'm reading this to my 90-year-old mom who is in a wheelchair. We are both in awe of your spirit and grateful for your art.
Sounds like some kind of adjustment Hanif, maybe now , with some luck and a lot of determination, you can continue your recovery with a helpful and realistic perspective....I think, from my own experience, the adjustment is the most important part......love the piece ! Thanks xxxx Jane
Happy 70th Hanif - what a wonderful story, you were also great on recent James O’Brien interview - as engaging and feisty as ever xxx
Not a dry eye in the house - wonderful writing, as ever xx
Wishing you well Hanif. I wonder where are you leading the young one.
Nice one, Hanif. I just turned 76. Half of the friends of my youth are dead. The other half have ailments. I have ailments. I find that we end up talking about our medications and blood tests and visits to the emergency room in between railings about politics. And yet it is still possible to laugh in spite of everything. You're an example to us all, my friend.
The young self talking to the old self: what a great way to do this, plus a great anecdote. Might nick this idea😄. My cousin, btw, shortly after he reinvented himself as a plus-four wearing rustic chap, was trampled by cows (he survived with bruises and cracked ribs). Oh and happy belated birthday, mate!
You may not be able to touch but this is the most touching thing I've read. Congratulations on being seventy Hanif xoxo
Brilliant. Makes me want to cry. What a fighter you are. K x
Hanif, my eyes prickled as I read your story. Then the end...tears of joy, that you can say now: "I’m happy" ...and...
“I’ve got a lot to look forward to,” says the young Hanif.
“You certainly do.”
Wishing you and your family - and this great family of readers - a joyful break at the end of a troubled year, and best wishes for health, happiness nad peace in 2025.
I turned 77 a couple months back and am having some relatively minor health issues that nonetheless remind me of how short our time is here…something that doesn’t really come to mind when we are younger does it?
Thank you for your piece today, it is so very lovely. I am happy to read as well that you seem to be at peace as you start your 8th decade and, whether you know it or not, are spreading that peace to those who might need it most. Bless you.
Beautiful. Grazie. Happy 70th!