If I were an old man, I would take a fishing rod, sit down on the seashore, and sit there all day long among the other old men. I would look at the sea, trying to catch its living changeability, its fifty shades of sea-wave color.
This would go on for so long—perhaps months and years—that I would become friends with the other fishermen, not always understanding what they were saying to me, and never understanding what they were saying to each other. From time to time, they would offer a sip of wine or chacha, and we would drink to improve our mutual understanding and respect. And I would grow old along with them, gathering their wisdom and filling them with mine whenever possible. And when some Petre and Andria called me along with them to change my occupation, wonderfully transforming from fishers of fish into fishers of men, perhaps I would not refuse right away, like before, but would hesitate, lingering in doubt and asking for a little more time to make a decision.







