…And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
That's Frost, from "Out, Outโ", a poem you may know, and should know if you don't. It's one of his masterpieces. You can read it online at the Poetry Foundation.
It's been on my mind for the past couple of days. I got word last Friday of the death of an old and close friend–I've mentioned him here occasionally, the "Robert" who introduced me to a lot of good music and other things over the years. I feel the loss, and I'm going to miss him. And yet–as Frost says, one turns back to one's own life, though it feels somehow wrong that the world having come to an end (we suppose) for one person, it should continue for the rest of us. My usual routine has hardly been disturbed.
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