I grew up in a family that believed love was at work in the world. I guess that's a religious idea, though of course it needn't be.

We live in specific places. We are marked by a place.

I liked books - the respite and privacy of them - books about plants and the formation of ice and the business of world wars. Whenever I sank into them I felt free.

And you can't help but worry for them, love them, want for them - those who go on down the close, foetid galleries of time and space without you.

Hunting and gathering are in my blood. But I've lived long enough to witness a diminution in the seas, and to notice a fragility where once I saw - or assumed - an endless bounty.

And though I've lived to be an old man with my very own share of happiness for all the mess I made, I still judge every joyous moment, every victory and revelation against those few seconds of living.

Surviving is the strongest memory I have; the sense of having walked on water.