A pleasant old age

I cannot imagine a pleasanter old age than one spent in the not too remote country where I could reread and annotate my favorite books.

Andre Maurois, French author

Andre Maurois

I once met a man in his 90s — and wrote a newspaper column about him — whose life was pretty much what Andre Maurois describes above. Once a chemist, if I remember correctly, he now spent his days reading, not in a comfortable easy chair but sitting at his kitchen table. He mostly reread old favorites. He was reading Thackery when I met him and he became my friend. He lived in a small house full of books in a very small town, which might even be described as a "not too remote country."

I am too rapidly approaching that age now, and his life seems pleasant to me.

Most very old people seem to spend most of their waking hours watching television. That's what both of my parents did in their 90s. I am prepared for that kind of life, as well, for I have a large collection of DVDs, both favorite movies and television shows. I could happily watch them all again and again.

Yet reading sounds even more pleasant to me, for as long as I can focus my mind, make out the print and make notes on index cards about what I read.