Sometimes I read the words of a another, and see in them a certain kind of soul. It's almost like meeting someone who shares the same birthday. A kind of warmth, the sharing of an invisible, which is always more like a song, or a drum beat, or something like a good yesterday that might have come again. It's a good feeling. But quite what to call it I don't know. There should be no implication of comradeship in the sharing of a birth date, because of the billions upon the planet, odds are 1/365th of us will share my birthday, and here I don't believe I was born in a leap year, which I imagine has some sort of ramification upon the fraction. Either way, it's well over a million people and probably closer to two million. Which is staggering.
I can for example read the great minds and I come away saying pretty much the same thing about each of them that Walking Stewart said of Shakespeare, which was far from complimentary, and in his day certainly raised the odd eyebrow in circles genteel. The height of arrogance on my part, and I have no doubt of this, because I have long considered myself the epitome of a certain kind of pompous, and an a-hole. Either that, or it's an improper education, some link in the mind as yet unconnected, but I don' t believe so. Sometimes though, I read the words of another and see in those words a soul like the one that walks around when I walk around. Which is very nice for me, and humbling. Last time it happened I guess I was eleven, the author was Peter Cheyney, his hero Lemmy Caution. "The kinda dame that'd just as easily stick you with a stiletto as order up a chocolate sundae." Or something like that. But I do remember the last time I met someone who shared my birthday. It didn't end well.