Pico Iyer, the British-born essayÂist, has a nice realÂiÂty check in today’s New York Times, and it’s now the most emailed artiÂcle of the day. Here are a few key pasÂsages:
“I’m not sure how much outÂward details or accomÂplishÂments ever realÂly make us hapÂpy deep down. The milÂlionÂaires I know seem desÂperÂate to become mulÂtiÂmilÂlionÂaires, and spend more time with their lawyers and their bankers than with their friends (whose motiÂvaÂtions they are no longer sure of). And I rememÂber how, in the corÂpoÂrate world, I always knew there was some highÂer posiÂtion I could attain, which meant that, like Zeno’s arrow, I was guarÂanÂteed nevÂer to arrive and always to remain disÂsatÂisÂfied…”
“…my two-room apartÂment in nowhere Japan seems more abunÂdant than the big house that burned down [in SanÂta BarÂbara, CA]. I have time to read the new John le Carre, while nibÂbling at sweet tanÂgerÂines in the sun. When a SigÂur Ros album comes out, it fills my days and nights, resplenÂdent. And then it seems that hapÂpiÂness, like peace or pasÂsion, comes most freely when it isn’t purÂsued.”
On a relatÂed note, you might want to check out this piece in the The Atlantic, What Makes Us HapÂpy?, which takes a look at HarÂvard’s long effort to answer that quesÂtion.