At the end of the year — and, particularly, the end of a decade — an old man's fancy turns, involuntarily, to nostalgia.
No, dear reader, I am not lamenting the dimming of yesterday's light, nor am I about to wax over waning powers. There are some things that bring back the past with a vengeance of passion when we least expect it. Marcel Proust had his madeleine, and Henry Miller had lots of Madeleines, which only goes to show that you can have your cake and eat it too.
Each of us goes all emotional and blubbery (though in Miller's case this may not be the proper choice of word) over something. It is, I must confess, an insect that does it for me. Lest you think this is a hitherto undisclosed Pulversian perversion, let me explain.