There are moments, coming more and more often, when I think it may be time to step back and let the good people of Agincourt — and the not-so-good — live (and live out) their lives without interference from me. The frequency of posts here has slacked from fifteen or more a month down to one or two. Oh, don’t mistake this for indifference or, heaven forbid, boredom. I’ve grown to know these people and even like a few of them. But I’m going to let the citizens of Agincourt go about their business — still observed at a distance — with leave to call upon me should the need arise.
“…what man is capable of the insane self-conceit of believing that an eternity of himself would be tolerable even to himself? Those who try to believe it postulate that they shall be made perfect first. But if you make me perfect I shall no longer be myself, nor will it be possible for me to conceive my present imperfections (and what I cannot conceive I cannot remember); so that you may just as well give me a new name and face the fact that I am a new person and that the old Bernard Shaw is as dead as mutton. Thus, oddly enough, the conventional belief in the matter comes to this: that if you wish to live for ever you must be wicked enough to be irretrievably damned, since the saved are no longer what they were, and in hell alone do people retain their sinful nature: that is to say, their individuality. And this sort of hell, however convenient as a means of intimidating persons who have practically no honor and no conscience, is not a fact.”