The accelerating passage of time is as dismaying and as unnatural to our eternal souls as is death and even when we try slightly to arrest the progress of a passing moment, if only to appreciate it the better, we are dismayed to see it cannot be done-except, perhaps, after some fashion in art. “Can that be ten years already?” And her observation-still so fresh and vivid to me-is itself nearly a half-century old. I first observed this, albeit secondhand, in 1973 at age ten when my German grandmother saw a newspaper mentioning the tenth anniversary of JFK’s assassination.
Though a cliche, it’s nonetheless a rude certainty that as time passes it accelerates, until years skip past with the disconcertingly blurring rapidity of subway cars. That ten years have passed since this book appeared is hard to fathom.
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