For most men and women these thirty years [between thirty-five and sixty-five] are taken up with a gradual withdrawal from life, a retreat first from a front with many shelters, those myriad amusements and curiosities of youth, to a line with less, when we peel down our ambitions to one ambition, our recreations to one recreation, our friends to a few to whom were are anæsthetic; ending up at last in a solitary, desolate strong point that is not strong, where the shells now whistle abominably, now are but half-heard as, by turns frightened and tired, we sit waiting for death.
—F. Scott Fitzgerald, ‘”O Russet Witch!”‘, iv
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theater, natural history and conservation, the utterly mundane, and Etruscan 8-tracks