Ian on Sunday

”Stay at home” is one of the protocols to follow in confronting the Corona virus plague. 

Readers may want to know why this space again this Sunday lacks its usual text.

It seems not a day, and certainly not a week, passes without our stomachs being turned by appalling news of women cruelly abused, beaten and, often enough, murdered in headline – hot, red blood.

I regret I cannot supply a column this week. It is late Friday after election day on Monday.

The great unabridged Oxford English Dictionary contains half a million words.

If I am allowed the time I hope to complete a book of portraits of places and people unforgotten and unforgettable in my life.

I remember long ago saying to that warm and intelligent human being, Winnie Gaskin, that I wasn’t really interested in politics, that I grew bored by its complexities, that I loathed its sour and unbrotherly antagonisms, that I had better things to do than get mixed up in all the unsavoury maneuverings that went into lusting after political power. 

Joseph Brodsky, the great Russian poet who died at the sadly young age of 56, on receiving his Nobel Prize in the Grand Hall of the Swedish Academy in Stockholm in December, 1987, declared a great truth: “There is no doubt in my mind that, should we have been choosing our leaders on the basis of their reading experience and not their political programmes, there would be much less grief on earth.”

I thank whatever Gods that be that even at the age of 86 my mind remains restless and eager to absorb new facts, new theories, new ways of looking at life and the world, new stories of mankind’s continual search for perfected knowledge, new illuminations of the spirit.

I love poetry. It is the quiet passion of my life.

My friend Bud Lee — distinguished and regionally honoured surgeon, fine sportsman, one of the outstanding Guyanese of his generation — played a large part in my life at one time. 

So, here we are, another General Election is upon us. The scene is set.

“for what else is there but books, books and the sea, verandahs and the pages of the sea to write of the wind and the memory                                                 of wind whipped hair in the sun, the colour of fire.”

Modern man has miraculous powers. He flies to the moon and soars beyond the sun.

The best words for Christmas are from T.S. Eliot’s marvelous poem, “The journey of the Magi.”

Another year has nearly passed away. This seems astonishing to me.

By what values should we strive to live in order to achieve a community in which differences are accommodated, a community where there is diversity of discourse but a recognition of the common good regardless of politics, religion, race and personal beliefs?

Life at 86 is as full of adventure and interest as it ever was but the adventures and interests are now sedentary.

Some years ago the London Times, on an exceptionally dull day for news, carried a story which it headlined “Small earthquake in Chile: no damage, no injuries.”

It is extremely important that you pay attention to what today’s column says if you wish to live a longer, healthier, more alert and happier life.