Friday, November 30, 2012

Harold McMurray, 1:30 p.m, 30 Nov. 2012

He was such a rotten prick that often I wanted to hit him hard and knock him down and  make him hurt so badly that he'd shut up and never dare piss me off again. But he was my friend, so I let it go. And when I did he'd smile and tell a joke to relieve the tension, and because he was basically a decent man who hated himself more than he claimed to hate the world and everyone in it, I liked him for the good in him. One would have to know him a long time to see that good. But it was there for anyone who cared to see it. Now he's dead. I am the recorder, and this is the lasting testament.

Life might mourn.
Thus much and more; and yet thou lov’st me not,
   And never wilt! Love dwells not in our will.
Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot
   To strongly, wrongly, vainly love thee still.
Lord Byron, "Love and Death" (C, 1824; pub. 1887.)

A gentle reminder that my book, An Occasional Walker, is available at the link here:

And here are some reviews and comments on said book:

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