Lately, in these more temperate years, I’m reminded of Shakespeare’s Henry plays after Falstaff has died: Prince Hal, having spent his twenties as a drunken fuckup, puts riotous youth and disreputable friends behind and finds a place in life for dignity, honor, and achievement—but it also feels as if everything best and happiest and most human has gone out of the world. As if great things may lie ahead, but the good times are over.
