I just learned today (from reading Edward Cone's blog -- see below) that Stephen Jay Gould died on Monday at the age of 60. Aside from having seen him on TV enough times to associate his photograph with his name, I can't claim to have known him, and I certainly didn't know the details of his career and accomplishments as well as I do now after reading his obituary in the New York Times, but it's always sobering to me when I hear of a man of my age dying. It draws me back to the inevitable reality of my own death and the potential immediacy of it. Last October, my closest friend from High School, Del Jones, died of kidney cancer at the age of 60. [How ironic! After mentioning Del, I just realized that today would have been his 61st birthday.] Not long ago, Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead died at the age of 53. Such events lead me to examine the paultry record of achievement in my life at a similar age and help me to feel small and insignificant. I usually lighten up after a little while and move on, but at times like these I think how short a lifetime really is, even if one is so fortunate as to live this long.
- posted by Perry @ 7:49 AM