On your Birthday, I write this-

Your mother always felt a little guilty at liking and taking what pleased her. From that came her love for live, the arts, and having you against all odds.

I see her arms around you grow fainter, more distant, and somehow I am able to look the past squarely in the eye. As that past evaporates and the future shrinks, I for one seek and value all experiences and links.

I read your dissertation with awe and admiration. Unlike relationships, politics, or law, the arts make us more what we already are; they show us what we did not know we knew. You also embrace a universe that is Europe, and you tell me that you feel divided and torn.

People always have expected me to define myself as either European or American. I tell them, that I have been married twice, but never divorced. My first spouse was Europe. My second America, and after four passionate decades, my-love-that-was-more-than-mere-friendship evolved into a friendship-that-is-more-than-mere-love, and has remained so. Shall we talk about that when we next meet?

If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be me. Granted every instant of our lives is full of events that alter us forever. Nevertheless, some events can be more altering than others. You coming so unexpectedly into our lives was one of them. Please continue to make me more of what I already am.

Happy Birthday, Clive.
From Scotland to Samos, today, Europe is your present, just open it!