The Meaning of Life

June 14, 2009
New York City

Today I went to the Strand used book store with my knitting sister to get her a copy of Sweater Design in Plain English by Maggie Righetti.  Their computer said they had it but it couldn't be found, so she looked for her favorite authors but saw nothing her bookshelves lacked.

I noticed a copy of Lermontov's A Hero of Our Time, which I read forty years ago.  Pechorin is a “superfluous man” whose life is meaningless.  I compared it with mine.  He's very good at seducing women, a talent eternally envied by the multitude of men, but this doesn't make him happy.  I was always a failure with women, which made me very unhappy.  I've been disabled since 1982, so no career, while he's a prestigious military officer who gets to go around oppressing Chechens, which was then considered very patriotic.  I do enjoy writing, but have writer's block 90% of the time; he hunts wild boar, which I definitely would not care to try, but it was supposed to be loads of fun for guys like him.  He's quite wealthy through inheritance, while I'm moderately impoverished.

My sister complained that the books she saw were probably depressing, but I pointed out that such a big store must have some that weren't.  Seek, and ye shall find, the Bible says.  By and by she found something for $6 that might help her briefly to forget her sorrows.

I don't feel superfluous because my mother and sister value my help; Pechorin suffers from selfishness.  If his family doesn't need his help he should find friends who do.