Even around eight o’clock in the evening the Forbury is still quite light at this time of year, but only a few people cross the park on their way home. At dusk, it reverts to the wildlife. Blackbirds, wood-pigeons, crows, squirrels, and ducks walk around the place. And so do hares. They do not pay much attention to an occasional passer-by, but they all freeze at the sight of a dog. Most people and dogs do not notice anything out of the ordinary, either. The hares are as good as invisible. Only I, perched high above the park, can see everything and remain unobserved. I have to remind myself over and over again that my fortunate vantage point is not a sufficient reason to become conceited.

Addendum (April 25, 2017)

The last sentence is wonderful to come across so many years later. And on one of my uncharted journeys through my writings. Indeed, I felt like a god just before leaving Reading. And so I did immediately upon arrival in Motovun, as well (“Kataskopos,” July 20, 2003). There could be hardly any doubt that my early retirement gave me wings. To this day, I consider it the most fortunate move in my life. Although it still holds that my fortunate vantage point is not a sufficient reason to become conceited, the exuberant joy has never left me. Never ever. Perched high above the world, I can see nearly everything and remain almost unobserved. Luckily for me, my writings are largely unknown still. Alleluia!