An op-ed in the Boston Globe, remarking on near corpses who keep on doing what they’ve always done, compared me to Mick Jagger. Never before had I been so honored. The columnist mentioned others: Keith Richards, Alice Munro, and William Trevor, who was born the same year I was. At seventy-one, Jagger is a juvenile among us eighty-six-year-olds—but his face as he jumps and gyrates resembles something retrieved from a bog.
