Predrag Matvejević is my favorite Croatian writer. Thus I used his books to beef up my Croatian before my move from Britain. Years ago, we used to exchange occasional electronic-mail messages while I was fighting against crooked golf in Motovun and beyond. An intellectual to my liking, he even became a member of the green association I had put together with that purpose in mind. A couple of years ago I approached him in the street on one of my visits to Zagreb, and I promised to get back in touch soon. But I never did. The fight against crooked golf over with the end of the last economic boom, I disbanded the association. And I stopped communicating with its former members. There is another reason I have never gotten in touch with him, though. Every time I see him in the street, and I see him about once a month, I am struck by his rapid ageing. To my horror, he looks worse by the day. I just walked by him, and it did not even cross my mind to stop for a word or two. Dragging along with his wife, he looked like a tottering old man. I feel wretched about it, too. How could I write Matvejević off so quickly and callously? Does it have anything to do with my own rapid ageing?