perfidy

It is my birthday after all. Coincidently, it also happens to be the birthday of this hack poet:

William Butler Yeats was born on this day in 1865, and managed to survive another 74 years scribbling forgettable poetry and dabbling in oriental mysticism and fascism. Strangely enough, I have managed to go 37 years without ever realizing that I shared my birthday with a famous poet. Thanks to Trish, who sent me a nice Birthday card from the Victoria and Albert Museum, for clueing me in.

I am now arguably in my late thirties. I am not sure how to feel about that. The last decade has not been without some success, but the idea that I'm creeping ever closer to 40 is, well, creepy. Nevertheless, it's a happy birthday, and a beautiful day. And dad got me the complete Far Side...