Like the Flowing River

It's best to go back to sleep. It was just a dream; these questions will get him nowhere; and tomorrow he's going to be very, very busy.

Manuel Is a Free Man

Manuel works for thirty years without stopping. He brings up his children, sets a good example, and devotes all his time to work, never asking: 'Does what I'm doing have any meaning?' His one thought is that the busier he is, the more important he will be in the eyes of the world.

His children grow up and leave home. He gets promotion at work. One day, he receives a watch or a pen, as a reward for all those years of devotion. His friends shed a few tears, and the longed-for moment arrives: he's retired, free to do whatever he wants!

During the first few months, he occasionally visits the office where he worked, talks to his old friends, and surrenders to the pleasure of doing something he always dreamed of: getting up late. He goes for a walk along the beach or through town; he has his house in the country, earned by the sweat of his brow; he discovers gardening, and gradually penetrates the mysteries of plants and flowers. Manuel has time, all the time in the world. He travels, using some of the money he has managed to save. He visits museums and learns in two hours about ideas that took painters and sculptors from different eras centuries to develop; but he at least has the feeling that he is broadening his cultural knowledge. He takes hundreds and thousands of photos and sends them to his friends - after all, they need to know how happy he is.

More months pass. Manuel learns that the garden does not follow exactly the same rules as man - what he planted will take time to grow, and there is no point in constantly checking to see if there are buds on the rose bush yet. In a moment of genuine reflection, he discovers that all he saw on his journeys was the landscape outside the tourist bus, and monuments which are now preserved in various 6 x 9 photos. But the truth is, he did not feel any real excitement - he was more concerned with telling his friends about it than with actually experiencing the magic of being in a foreign country.

He continues to watch the television news and reads more newspapers (because he has more time), considering himself to be a very well-informed person, able to talk about things which, before, he had no time to study.

He looks for someone with whom to share his opinions, but they are all immersed in the river of life, working, doing something, envying Manuel his freedom and, at the same time, content to be useful to society, and to be 'occupied' with something important.

Manuel seeks comfort in his children. They always treat him with great affection - he has been an excellent father, an exemplar of honesty and dedication - but they, too, have other concerns, although they consider it their duty to be there for Sunday lunch.

Manuel is a free man, reasonably well off, well informed, with an impeccable past. But what now? What should he do with this hard-won freedom? Everyone greets him and praises him, but no one has time for him. Gradually, Manuel begins to feel sad and useless, despite all those many years spent serving the world and his family.

One night, an angel appears to him while he sleeps: 'What have you done with your life? Did you try to live your life according to your dreams?'

Another long day begins. The newspapers. The TV news. The garden. Lunch. A short nap. He can do whatever he wants to do, except that, right now, he discovers, he doesn't want to do anything. Manuel is a sad, free man, just one step away from depression, because he was always too busy to think about the meaning of his life, and simply let the years flow under the bridge. He remembers the words of the poet: 'He passed through life/He did not live it.'

However, since it is too late to accept all this, it's best just to change the subject. His hard-won freedom is merely exile in disguise.

Manuel Goes to Paradise

For a while, Manuel enjoys the freedom of retirement, not having to get up at a particular time, and being able to use his time to do what he wants. However, he soon falls into depression. He feels useless, excluded from the society he helped to build, abandoned by his grown-up children, incapable of understanding the meaning of life, having never bothered to answer the old, old question: 'What am I doing here?'

Well, our dear, honest, dedicated Manuel finally dies - something that will happen to all the Manuels, Paulos, Marias, and Monicas of this world. And here, I will let Henry Drummond, in his brilliant book, The Greatest Thing in the World, describe what happens next:

Since earliest times people have asked the great question: What is the supreme good? You have life before you. You can only live it once. What is the noblest object of desire, the supreme gift to covet?

We have been accustomed to be told that the greatest thing in the religious world is faith. That great word has been the keynote for centuries of the popular religion; and we have easily learned to look upon it as the greatest thing in the world. Well, we are wrong. If we have been told that, we may miss the mark. In the 13th chapter of 1 Corinthians, Paul takes us to Christianity at its source, and there we see, 'The greatest of these is love.'

It is not an oversight. Paul was speaking of faith just a moment before. He says, 'And if I have all faith, so that I can remove mountains, and have not love, I am nothing. ' So far from forgetting, he deliberately contrasts them, 'Now abideth faith, hope, love', and without a moment's hesitation the decision falls, 'The greatest of these is love.'

In this case, our Manuel is saved at the moment of his death because, despite never having given a meaning to his life, he was capable of loving, of providing for his family, and of doing his work in a dignified manner. Meanwhile, even though his life had a happy ending, his last days on earth were very complicated.

To use a phrase I heard Shimon Peres use at the World Economic Forum in Davos: 'The optimist and the pessimist both die in the end, but each lives his life in a completely different way.'

In Melbourne

This is to be my main appearance at the Writers' Festival in Melbourne, Australia. It is ten o'clock in the morning and there is a packed audience. I am to be interviewed by a local writer, John Felton.

I step onto the platform with my usual feelings of apprehension. Felton introduces me and starts asking me questions. Before I can finish what I'm saying, he interrupts me and asks me another question. When I reply, he says something like 'That wasn't a very clear answer.' Five minutes later, there is a feeling of unease amongst the audience; everyone can sense that something is wrong. I remember Confucius, and take the only possible action.

'Do you like what I write?' I ask.

'That's irrelevant,' Felton replies. 'I'm here to interview you, not the other way round.'

'But it is relevant. You won't let me finish my thought. Confucius says: "Whenever possible, be clear." Let's follow that advice and make things absolutely clear: Do you like what I write?'

'No, I don't. I've read two of your books, and I hated both of them.'

'Fine, now we can continue.'

The lines of battle have been drawn. The audience relaxes, and the atmosphere becomes electric; the interview becomes a real debate, and everyone - including Felton - is pleased with the result.