Livre or Die is officially dead after eight years of, well, living. What a life, as I leave you with the aptly bittersweet words of Philip Larkin:
Love, we must part now: do not let it be
Calamitious and bitter. In the past
There has been too much moonlight and self-pity:
Let us have done with it: for now at last
Never has sun more boldly paced the sky,
Never were hearts more eager to be free,
To kick down worlds, lash forests; you and I
No longer hold them; we are husks, that see
The grain going forward to a different use.
There is regret. Always, there is regret.
But it is better that our lives unloose,
As two tall ships, wind-mastered, wet with light,
Break from an estuary with their courses set,
And waving part, and waving drop from sight.
And Stoppard’s riff on the second law of thermodynamics:
“We shed as we pick up, like travellers who must carry everything in their arms, and what we let fall will be picked up by those behind.The procession is very long and life is very short. We die on the march. But there is nothing outside the march so nothing can be lost to it.”