
It is so rare to take pause and breathe slowly enough to contemplate the experience of being alive. This is a terrible shame, given the sheer improbability of existence when measured against the infinite length of one’s dark bloodless future. Most moments of any lifetime are added to our libraries of blurred remembrances as soon as they are done, but there are a few that persist as if they never stopped happening. There was an evening from my childhood, for example, when I stood alone, confused but excited by the sight of boxing hares in a Chiltern meadow. They ran wildly, stopping every so often and raising themselves on their back legs to thump one another a few times, then tearing off again. The pointed ears of spectators stuck above the waving grass culms and the sun set to the cheerless accompaniment of a fox crying in the beech hanger above the meadow. I was mesmerized, breathless. Fifty years on, “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe . . . Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion . . . I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate.” And the mad March hares have boxed on in my skull throughout, and will continue to do so, I think, until time turns my brain into nothing more sensible than a boiled potato.