Calvin Tomkins has been writing for The New Yorker for 67 years. In honor of turning 100 on December 17th, he began keeping a journal of his 100th year, “Not every day, but when an event, experience, person, or thought catches my attention enough to overcome my laziness,” he writes. What emerges is a portrait of a thoughtful, vibrant, vital, and above all, inspiring human being who, while he laments what he calls his feebleness, has not lost his sense of humor.
March 16th
When we invite people to dinner at our apartment, we ask them to come at seven and all but suggest that they leave by nine. One of us will joke that this is the time I start to drool, but the real reason is that from nine on I can no longer take part in a conversation. It happens to me quite suddenly. I just drop out and sit there, smiling like an imbecile. The drooling comes later, when I’m asleep. I wake up and find that one side of the pillow is soaking wet. Old age is so embarrassing.
June 11th
Do I think about death? Yes, of course. I think about it fairly often, but without emotion. The question was settled for me years ago, when I realized that I don’t believe in any sort of afterlife. What I believe is that all of us—humans, animals, birds, plants, trees, and so forth—are part of the same natural world, and that death is as essential as life. This, for me, has always been a calming thought.
More picks from The New Yorker
In Defense of Despair
“The feeling is most commonly framed as an end point, a level of despondency that cannot be overcome. But it doesn’t have to be.”
When the Arctic Melts
“What the fate of Greenland means for the rest of the Earth.”
Glowworms
“In the punt on the river in the cave, beneath the dim light of glowing worms, it was thoughts of my own death that consumed me.”
