This morning I heard from a friend who told me that someone who has professed loathing for me, and demonstrated their ire in obvious ways, is now enthusiastically looking forward to reading my next book. Recently I heard from another friend that someone who was highly critical of my young self now tells all who will listen how much he always adored me.
I don’t really know what to make of these reports. I maintain an almost fetishistic devotion to the concept of truth – even if the truth is uneasy or sad.
I’m sure that whatever happened with these people was mostly my fault. I am a difficult, prickly, eccentric person. During the cancer years my sense of pride was the only thing that kept me alive long enough to make a series of profound mistakes. It has taken extraordinary effort to remain tethered to this world and act with decency.
I do not expect people to enjoy my company.
But then as I sat here fretfully considering my dark past I remembered that it doesn’t really matter. If people want to revise their own history and be friendly, I’m willing to accommodate this as a new truth. I bear no grudges precisely because I understand the inexorable reality of imminent death.
I feel no ill will toward anyone, regardless of what they have done or said. It is foolhardy to care more about the past than the present.