Autumn’s onset has made me think about where I am in life’s journey.
If I was to take the generous, but not outlandish, view of my potential lifespan as a healthy-ish 60 years-old I could live until I’m 90.
If my life span was a calendar year I’m in August – which sounds just fine – but in terms of the seasons Autumn in nearly upon me and before I know it I’ll be in life’s winter where there is no promise of a Spring to come.
In Shakespeare’s stunningly beautiful All the world’s a stage monologue by Jacques in As You Like It, I guess I’m either in the fifth or sixth of the seven ages of man:
And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part.
I managed to get rid of the round belly two years ago but the beard’s right and I’m full of wisdom! How about the sixth age?
The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound.
Well I do wear glasses but my asthmatic wheeze has gone thanks to my steroid inhaler!
Truth is I’m not enamoured with either age as Shakespeare describes it. It’s sad that literature – and in some ways society in general – characterises life after 50 as inexorable decline.
I reproduce the whole world’s a stage passage below, which in truth is far from positive about any age. Just love how the opening lines presents all of us as “merely players”, the perfect antidote to modern-day humanity’s hubris.
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.