The first time I was informed I was a person’s only reason for living, I said nothing. The second time, I said, “What a terrible reason to live.” The third time, I gently pointed out other, far better people. After that, when told I was their only reason for living, I stopped replying.
Reflecting on this, I think about how my life was for and about Constance. I know it has been difficult for my mother to see me brought so low. We all find joy in the happiness of our children.
Now, I find myself wondering, is pizza a good enough reason to live? Is sex? Sex is certainly more difficult to get and it’s quality varies more dramatically than pizza’s does. Perhaps the enjoyment of art or a good night’s sleep would be good enough reasons—if those were attainable. I’m not there yet.
For me, I know professional achievement isn’t. Recently, while asking me for career advice, someone said I am the most successful person they know. My initial thought was how sad that is and then I remembered that he is a young person and, hence, he knows few adult people. I might be the least successful person I know—certainly by any measure that truly matters.