1
There is no inherent
honor in poverty. Being broke doesn’t mean that you know something
more than the next guy. Financial suffering may beget knowledge of a
kind, but it doesn’t infuse a man with moral superiority. There is
no implicit dignity in penury. Comfort with indigence is not the
equal of self-respect. But poor people love to tell you just the
opposite; it helps them justify their existence. Some even wear
t-shirts that declare proudly, “School of Hard Knocks.”
But
there is even less honor in mediocrity, in grinding out a living unhappily
–silently desperate, detached from anything approaching a true
calling. The content bum on the street is more of a man than the
chump in middle management who drives his Honda Accord to work everyday
wondering where in the world his dreams ran off to and trying to pinpoint the
moment in time that he finally gave up.
I
don’t care what you do for a living. It doesn’t really
matter. You could be a lawyer, doctor, politician, food server,
heroin junkie, statesman, dentist, garbage man, receptionist, horse jockey,
welfare recipient, Mafia strongman or thief. If you are what you do,
if you are passionate about your occupation, you are truly blessed.
For
many years, I searched for that one thing that I wanted to do above all
others. And when I failed to find it, I decided that I would just
commit to something that vaguely interested me. I’d bet it all on
red; and damn it if I wasn’t going, through the sheer force of my own will, to
fit that little white ball into a red slot. It was a good
strategy. I did my best. My parents, mentors, friends and
neighbors – sometimes even a stranger on the street – justified my decision by
telling me what a good one it was. How could I be wrong when
everybody else told me I was right?
But
the truth is all I’ve ever wanted was to be left alone: to work as little as
possible, to pursue the things which truly interest me but may not garner great
financial success, to ignore the desires of outsiders. “Of course,”
says the third party. “Who doesn’t want what you describe? But
we all have to grow up sometime.” I don’t resent this logic; I
embrace it. The majority of my life I have grappled with this
eventuality with even more of Kierkegaard’s fear and trembling than I do with
the abysmal eventuality that is inherent in my own mortality. Perhaps
this is because I erroneously view the latter event to be far
away. To me, life has always contained two deaths: the second is the
day your vital functions cease to operate; the first is the day you admit
you’ll never accomplish the things you always dreamed and decide to settle for
less.
Alexander
the Great one day in the city of Corinth came across the renowned
philosopher Diogenes. Familiar with the strange man, the Emperor
deigned to speak to the impoverished cynic.
“Diogenes,” he said,
sitting high atop his horse. “Have you no favor to ask of me?”
“Get out of my
sunlight,” the philosopher responded.
Upon riding away,
Alexander was heard to remark, “Were I not Alexander, I would be Diogenes.”
I’d
love to be rich. Dining out regularly and at the best restaurants
would give me great pleasure. Driving a fast, sleek automobile is an
experience that I know to be exhilarating, one of the essential American
joys. Regular sex with beautiful, classy women certainly comes at a
price, a price I would gladly pay if the means were at my disposal.
But
given the choice between relative poverty and a life of meaningless toil that
contains no essential joy I choose the former. My only real ambition
is free time. So, rather than compete for something that I have no
honest desire for, I will absent myself from the games. I am aware
that I will never be Alexander. I guess I’ll try to be more like
Diogenes.
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