Something I never fully appreciated when I was younger was how much of the past completely disappears. It was doing it all along, of course, but my window of personal acquaintance with time was short enough that most of the things I was aware of were still within their own window of currency, and the rest of what I knew about were the Big Things of the past that were important enough to linger in our cultural memory.
Now, though, I’ve lived long enough that I remember an awful lot of things, and people, and events, that most people now alive have never even been aware of — and I’m not talking about trivialities here, but rather about things that were prominent enough in their day to be common knowledge, front-page news, and household names. I have thousands of books, many of which “mattered” in their day, but are now out of print and forgotten, and before long will never be remembered at all.
I realize, of course, that I’m not exactly the first person all of this has occurred to! (And I’ve written about this sort of thing before, for example here and here.) But this year — in which, among other memento mori, I turned seventy, and lost my beloved younger brother and a dear old friend — has brought home the oceanic fact of impermanence in away that the mere reflections of youth, however serious, never could. It’s what made it, suddenly, so difficult to keep writing every day about the churning froth of worldly events.
I’ve come around a little, lately — life may just be a flickering candle, but while we’re here, we’re all here together, and it’s all real enough as it’s happening to matter very much nevertheless, and to be worth paying attention to. But a great deal really isn’t worth paying all that much attention to, and it’s often that which deserves the least attention that gets the most.
A good part of wisdom is knowing the difference — and remembering that, especially as our shadows lengthen, much of the most important work that remains is within us, near to hand, or above.
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I had retained a file cabinet drawer full of old journals and letters with a vague intention that I would, when I reached the age I am now, re-read them with pleasure and perhaps type out excerpts for my children. I started to excavate that drawer a few weeks ago and a mild pleasure in reminiscence soon gave way to what I can only think to call existential nausea. This came from a sense that I was looking down into a canyon of wasted time.
My unaided memory of past times emphasizes activities that “amounted to something” or “panned out.” Not in a big way, but at least arguably. It does not (cannot) edit out every shameful disaster, but it does make my life into a story. Not a story of interest to anyone but myself, and perhaps, if ruthlessly abridged, my children, but a story nevertheless. With the aid of those old journals and letters, however, my life looked like low decibel sound and fury signifying nothing.
I think this may be similar to what you describe in this post.
One of the less “cringy” things recorded in those old letters and journals was my addiction to books, used bookstores, and reading. But, as you say here, it is at least a little bit awful to be reminded of all the books one has read, and of all the chimeras and will o’ the wisps one was chasing through their innumerable pages.
One last thing I would note is that I am uncomforted by the standard platitudes that are said to apply to this occasion. A small voice in my mind recites “vanity of vanities, all is vanity,” and a voice robust with irritation answers, “O, please, shut up.”
Like you, my sense of the impermanence of all things and, in particular, of the inevitable erasure from memory of the dead has intensified with age, although it has always been with me to some degree, most likely because of my orthodox Catholic religious formation and my many years devoted to the study of times past. The 2006 post, “Dust,” to which you link above movingly captures the sad reality of this “second death” of persons, and I thank you for calling our attention to it.