Now that my life is more settled than it has been over the last several years, I’ve been in the mood to read more books. However, when I say my life is now more settled, it isn’t wholly settled. I refer to the fear I have that the police are still looking for me. So, I can never totally relax, and thus can’t be relaxed enough to read the numbers of books today that I used to, before I killed all those men and the Law got to hear about it and put me on its Most Wanted list.
The book I’ve most recently read is called “Outliers” by a young fellow called Malcolm Gladwell. It talks about the lives of some of the men who have made it big and why they became big. It turns out they became big, not so much because they were extremely clever or extremely gifted, but because they were born at the right time, into the right families, and in the right place.
I’ll say no more for now about this book or author because, what with the likes of Google and YouTube, you can find out all you want about this book and author, and just about anything else. Because I’m 118 and my Time therefore running out, I wish not to waste any of it giving out information you can easily find by means of your computer.
I mean, if you have a computer in your house that’s hooked to the internet, you have in fact your very own reference library. So you no longer need catch a bus and walk long distances to the nearest library if you wish to find out the sorts things that will make you appear clever to any men you speak with.
Seeing as most men nowadays have enough money to have a computer in their house, they can now glean all the knowledge they want. An Aladdin’s Cave, so to speak, of learning is therefore at their fingertips. You’d think, then, that most men today would be able to speak knowledgeably on just about anything when they’re with other men, and thus be scintillating conversationalists.
However, I’ve found this not to be so. Any men I nowadays speak with, seem as ignorant as their fathers might have been, and even more ignorant if anything. If I speak to them, for instance, of Stanley Baldwin, of Lloyd George, of Marshal Foch, of Harold Macmillan, of Jean-Paul Sartre, of Jack Hobbs, of Franz Fanon, or of Giuseppe Garibaldi, they look at me as if I were mad. The expressions in their eyes tell me clearly they’ve never heard of any of these famous men, and aren’t even interested in knowing about them.
Can you wonder, then, why I feel so alone?