I’m glad to know so many octogenarians, but… My father died at 72.* Jean-François Lyotard died at 74, as did Derrida. Wittgenstein was only 62, for heaven’s sake. We won’t count all my rock’n’roll heroes who died young.
Anyway, I really want to see that hermeneutics book written and published while I’m still around to enjoy the satisfaction of sending it out to the world. And then, maybe I can write something interesting for a change!
* My father had been a cigarette smoker most of his life. My mum, beset by MS and a smoker, lived to 82; my paternal grandfather (a man of significant gravity, and a smoker) to 88; my maternal grandmother, to 83; my aunts Isabelle and Grace, 82 and 95 (well done, Aunt Grace!); my Uncle Rich is going strong in his eighties, and Aunt Harriet is… well, I’m too discreet to say, but she gives me encouragement. So my family does provide reason for guarded optimism.