Now I am. . . like anyone with a strong preference for the fly rod, totally indifferent to how large a fish I catch by comparison with other fishermen. So when a fifteen-year-old called Fred, fishing deep in midsummer with a hideous plastic worm, caught a four and a half pounder. . . I naturally felt no resentment beyond wanting to break the kid's thumbs.
The swiftness of time is infinite, as is still more evident when we look back on the past.