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It seemed so violent, suicide. But here, now, up close, it seemed different, more a case of doing violence to the body that kept you shackled to an unlivable life. Cutting it loose and being free.
Maybe George was fooling himself. Maybe old people always fooled themselves, pretending that the world was going to hell in a handcart because it was easier than admitting they were being left behind, that the future was pulling away from the beach, and they were standing on their little island bidding it good riddance, knowing in their hearts that there was nothing left for them to do but sit around on the shingle waiting for the big diseases to come out of the undergrowth.
Perhaps the secret was to stop looking for greener grass. Perhaps the secret was to make the best of what you had.
She understood now. You got married in spite of your wedding not because of it.
He did not mind growing old. It was foolish to mind growing old. It happened to everyone. But that did not make it painless.
