Over four hundred years ago, in 1613 to be precise, a renowned English poet, John Donne, wrote his eighth elegy, titled, appropriately enough, “Elegy #8.”  In it, he included three words which have acquired a fairly high degree of celebrity on their own over the years.

The words: “Comparisons are odious.”

I’m not sure that I agree with Donne that all comparisons are odious, but I am totally convinced that as far as twins are concerned, while comparisons may not be odious, they are absolutely inevitable.  John and I were constantly being compared for our entire lives.  Compared by our family.  Compared by friends.  And even compared by strangers.  In fact, I suspect that those of you here this evening who knew John, but who have never met me before, are right at this moment comparing us.  That’s all right.  That’s what almost always happens.

All this comparing started on the day we were born, August 2, 1929.  On that day our dear mother started to keep a “twin diary” in which she recorded all the minutiae and trivia of her two new infant sons.  I only saw this diary for the first time a few weeks ago.  The first entry, naturally, was our birth weights.  I checked in at exactly eight pounds while John arrived nine minutes later weighing in at a svelte six pounds nine ounces.

Just one week later, on August 9, a rather painful day as I recall, our mother noted in her diary that John and I were both circumcised.  Fortunately, no comparisons were made on that occasion.

More comparisons appeared in our mother’s diary.  Which twin held his head up first.  Who rolled over first.  Who sat up first.  Who talked first.  Who walked first.  Who sprouted a tooth first.  She was a very comparing, as well as a very caring, mother.

For the first eight years of our life, before we were sent to boarding school, John and I slept in the same bedroom.  And at night, after our mother had tucked us in and turned out the light, we always talked (as soon as we had learned how) until we fell asleep.  We talked about all manner of things, but all during those years I never recall that we ever talked about being compared by other people.  I believe that intuitively we both realized, and readily accepted, that John would be better at some things and that I would be better at other things. 

Although we were fraternal twins rather than identical twins, we did share some physical characteristics.  On the other hand, in terms of our personality, outlook, and attitude we were completely different.  In spite of this, or perhaps because of this, we became remarkably close.

As an example, I remember that in 1936, when we were seven years old, we were on an eastbound crossing on the White Star Line’s Georgic, a ship on which we sailed several times.  For some reason John and I became absolutely convinced that we must create and use a private language that none of the grownups could understand so that we could communicate our secrets, whatever they were.  So during the seven-day crossing from New York to Southampton, we created a vocabulary of about two hundred words.  Not bad for a couple of seven-year-olds!

You will certainly understand that our mother, our nanny, our older brother Peter, a large number of fellow passengers as well as many members of the crew were driven completely bonkers by our ceaseless, alien jibber-jabber.  And I’m sure everyone was delighted when the voyage was over and the twins disembarked. 

Today I can remember only a single word of that secret boyhood language; the word “glop.”  “Glop,” always accompanied by a small wave of the right hand, meant simply “goodbye.”

As we matured and grew older we remained close.  We found that we liked each other’s company, perhaps because we had similar tastes, and we always thoroughly enjoyed what the English call “a good chin-wag.”

When John was twenty-five he got married, and when he asked me to be his best man at the wedding I was pleased and proud to accept.  Two years later, when I got married, of course John was my best man.  From that time until John’s death on July 6 I have always liked to consider that he and I remained each other’s “best man.”

While like all of you I mourn John’s absence, it is not my purpose this evening to bewail his death.  There is no need to.

John had an exemplary life.  He had a very happy life.  He had a very privileged life.  He had a very long life.  And he had a very fulfilling life.

He had four wonderful children whom he adored and who adored him in return.

He was lucky enough to have a marvelous son-in-law and two marvelous daughters-in-law. 

He had a long and extremely happy married life with his beloved Mary, marred not even once by a single disagreement; truly a marriage made in heaven.

And he was the very best at what he did, both as a riveting author of many books, brilliantly written, meticulously researched, and laced with flashes of wit, and as a superb and unequalled lecturer who would keep his audiences fascinated and enthralled not only by what he said, but how he said it.  He was a showman, too.

Diana and I attended many of John’s lectures both at sea and ashore, and we were always as fascinated and enthralled as everybody else.  And, seated in the audience, I was also very proud to watch my twin brother up on the stage with the audience firmly clasped in the palm of his hand.

Staunch companion.  Best friend.  A hell of twin brother.  Glop, my dear friend.  I will miss you.