were also removing their hats, standing at attention, joining and honoring his life.

And perhaps this was a way of honoring their own lives, Julius thought. What else

do we have? What else other than this miraculous blessed interval of being and self–awareness? If anything is to be honored and blessed, it should simply be this—the

priceless gift of sheer existence. To live in despair because life is finite or because life

has no higher purpose or embedded design is crass ingratitude. To dream up an

omniscient creator and devote our life to endless genuflection seems pointless. And

wasteful, too: why squander all that love on a phantasm when there seems too little love

to go around on Earth as it is? Better to embrace Spinoza`s and Einstein`s solution:

simply bow one`s head, tip one`s hat to the elegant laws and mystery of nature, and go

about the business of living.

These were not new thoughts for Julius—he had always known of finiteness and

the evanescence of consciousness. But there is knowing andknowing. And death`s

presence on the stage brought him closer to really knowing. It was not that he had grown

wiser: it was only that the removal of distractions—ambition, sexual passion, money,

prestige, applause, popularity—offered a purer vision. Wasn`t such detachment the

Buddha`s truth? Perhaps so, but he preferred the path of the Greeks: everything in

moderation. Too much of life`s show is missed if we never take off our coats and join in

the fun. Why rush to the exit door before closing time?

After a few days, when Julius felt calmer with fewer sweeps of panic, his thoughts turned

to the future. «One good year» Bob King had said, «no guarantees, but it would not be

unreasonable to hope for at least a year of good health.» But how to spend that year? One