I once sat silently by the bedside of a dying friend. I could come up with nothing to say just short of an eternity that might be suitable, and felt dishonest, as though I’d been tossing off those very important few last seconds of our altogether noteworthy friendship, wherein we had never parted without providing the other with equal appreciative byplay.
I asked him if it was tough to leave, and he said, in a very pleasant tone, “It beats incontinence.”
Why did he have to say that?
GORDON PINSENT 