Seamus Heaney has died at the age of 74, which seems young to me now. This is from the New York Times obit:
In the 1984 collection, “Station Island,” he wrote: “The main thing is to write for the joy of it. Cultivate a work-lust that imagines its haven like your hands at night, dreaming the sun in the sunspot of a breast. You are fasted now, light-headed, dangerous. Take off from here. And don’t be so earnest.”This is from a guy who grew up a farmer's son and Catholic in Northern Ireland, learning about prejudice and injustice. I should learn from him.