On September 25, 1989, Mark Hamill was turning 38 years old. Christopher Reeves was turning 37. William Faulkner was not turning 92, but he would have had he not died 27 years earlier.
I was turning 16 years old and furiously reckoning with a several months old accident that involved a totaled Buick belonging to my father and a possibly unlicensed 15 year old driver that looked a lot like me.
So while Luke and Superman were celebrating and a lot of serious sounding literary types were saying serious sounding literary things about Oxford’s most famous, I was ruing a few decisions.