There are moments that are made up of too much stuff for them to be lived at the time they occur

As I suppose must be the case for many children, my early reading was shaped by the books available from my parents' reading. My mother was inclined toward historical fiction and historical romances, neither of which piqued my interest.

My father's reading was somewhat of a wider range. I certainly continue to read P.G. Wodehouse to this day, an author whom he loved. My father had a collection of Wodehouse paperbacks which, between he, my older sister, and myself, were read into oblivion. Even the later hardback collection of Wodehouse books which he acquired now shows its age.

Rex Stout and his Nero Wolf series was also a mainstay of my father's and which I continue to enjoy to this day and which my sons also enjoy.

There were some action writers such as Desmond Bagley, whom I read then and have revisited since. Others were more hit and miss.

This was in the late sixties and into the seventies when we were in Europe, in the shadow of the Soviet Union. There were a series of cold war spy authors whom I did not read then and have not read since - Robert Ludlum, John Le Carré, and others. Until now.

I remember the spine of a John Le Carré book, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy in the book case in the living room. When I came across a copy of this a few months ago, I decided to give it a try. It is a classic in its genre.

But the genre is still not especially to my taste. I read it and am glad I did. I love his portrait of that Cold War era and London of that time. But I do not hunger to read others in the series.

Now that my father is gone though, it does warm my heart a little to read that which he read. It is a ridiculous emotion, but there it is anyway.

A couple of passages. This is the London of the early seventies which I recall. Shades of past glory, sullied by decline.

When Smiley had left the Islay for Grosvenor Square that morning, the streets had been bathed in harsh sunshine and the sky was blue. Now as he drove the hired Rover past the unlovable facades of the Edgeware Road, the wind had dropped, the sky was black with waiting rain, and all that remained of the sun was a lingering redness on the tarmac. He parked in St. John's Wood Road, in the forecourt of a new tower block with a glass porch, but he did not enter by the porch. Passing a large sculpture describing, as it seemed to him, nothing but a sort of cosmic muddle, he made his way through icy drizzle to a descending outside staircase marked "Exit Only." The first flight was of terrazzo tile and had a banister of African teak. Below that, the contractor's generosity ceased. Rough-rendered plaster replaced the earlier luxury and a stench of uncollected refuse crammed the air.

I especially like this remark.

There are moments that are made up of too much stuff for them to be lived at the time they occur.

Yes, there are those. Some to be relived and treasured, some to be reexamined to understand what happened.