In the book I just finished, a forty-something man says of young people in their twenties:
"They treat me as I would treat a dear old lady, well past seventy and long buried in the country. And, of course, they don't understand irony. (Perhaps I don't understand the irony of dear old ladies -- it's a chastening thought.)"
Reading this paragraph caused me a bit of mental whiplash - first, the realization that I'd been guilty of such behavior to my elders; second, the recognition of having all too often been on the receiving end of said behavior; and third (with something of a shock) the absolute fact that I am an old lady, not especially dear but well past seventy and long buried in the country. And does anyone understand my irony?
(Exit humming "I've looked at life from three sides now . . .")
(I encountered the quoted paragraph in Hugh Walpole's Farthing Hall -- a bit of a period piece that belonged to John's paternal grandmother.)
