There is no heavier fate than to live in a time that is not your own.
—Vasily Grossman, “Life and Fate”

Our moment is rife with impermanence. Nearest to us is that form of impermanence familiar to Buddhists: birth, aging, sickness, and death. Baudelaire described this ordinary catastrophe in lines as forceful as Tibetan skull beads: “Time engulfs me in its steady tide/As blizzards cover corpses with their snow.”

But recently the ageless fear of our approaching demise has been greatly quickened by the COVID-19 pandemic. It feels as if we are now accelerating through the stages of life. If we thought that we still had long, lazy years in front of us, it now feels as if many of us will be dead by the end of the week, every week, and on into the foreseeable future. Untimely deaths indeed. Anxious, we try to shut our ears to it, but we still hear what Albert Camus called “that eerie sound above, the whispering of the plague.”

 

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