The Lazy Millionaire
Page 14
Yes, women discovered long before men the usefulness of taking care of their make-up in their car, and they have a good excuse: they wasted an hour choosing a dress, which should hardly be surprising, because the first thing she says to you when you ask her to accompany her to a cocktail is: “I have nothing to wear!”
So I calculated that it takes me approximately three and a half minutes to shave decently —with an electric razor!
It takes even longer with a blade, because you have to wet your face first, and then dry it after…
And sometimes, especially with a new blade —but the old one shaved poorly and you don’t have all morning to get the job done, especially when… you are already late! —…yes, with a new blade it’s easy to cut yourself, and you bleed, and then you have to try to stop the bleeding with a tiny but elegant corner of a Kleenex.
And later, at the office, the secretary or a colleague scratches their chin in front of you, and asks you, somewhat blatantly, what disease you are suffering from, before you realize that it’s the little fleck of white Kleenex, which is now red, that triggered this humanitarian gesture…
Try this in your life, and let me know how it goes…
In any case, if I see you shaving in your car one day, I will applaud you: I’ll know that you have understood me, or at least read my book!
CHAPTER 9
DO YOU SPEND YOUR TIME…VACUUMING?
One day, a nice Electrolux salesman came knocking at my door.
I was 22 or 23 years old, and I was living in an apartment that I loved, even though it was quite modest and cost me only $60 per month. That should tell you a little bit about my age!
The five-room apartment in Montreal’s North End was bright, large, and poetic, with its uneven hardwood floors, on which a dropped marble would have quickly rolled to the other end of the apartment, without having to make a single movement; but most importantly, this was… my first apartment! It remains in our memories like our first love, even if it was nothing to “write home about”.
This young salesman —let’s call him Charlie, because after all, that was his first name —showed up at the perfect time, as if he had been sent from heaven by the angel of dust, because I was waiting for a lady friend, in fact a young woman whom I wanted to be my girlfriend!
And because I spent most of my time with my books, —which I devoured and awkwardly attempted to write —my apartment seemed to be somewhat lacking in attention.
Looking very skeptical with regard to the efficiency of the vacuum whose virtues Charles had just listed. I told him: “Your appliance seems quite powerful, but can it suck up those huge dust bunnies that are nesting along my living-room wall?
“No problem.”
And he demonstrated its effectiveness with great enthusiasm. Not to spoil his pleasure by making the sale too easy, I played the same little game with the dust in my office. He deftly demonstrated again.
“Okay,” I continued on to my kitchen, not half-convinced, “can your vacuum cleaner make the crumbs disappear before the rodents, who are only waiting for a distraction or a moment of weakness on my part, to gobble them up?”
“But of course!”
The god who protects overworked and strung-out novelists had just made my apartment shine without me even having to lift a finger!
As soon as the demonstration was completed, I thanked the salesman and told him: “Not only are you an excellent salesman, Charles, but I am convinced that your vacuum cleaner is the best in the world!”
Enchanted, he pulled out his order book from his briefcase, and asked me my name. I stopped him.
“I have bad news for you, though. I could never buy your vacuum cleaner.”
(It cost $700, which was an amount that I didn’t have, and I had to find a philosophical justification for this)!
“Why?”
“Just imagine if I bought your vacuum cleaner, used it once, and died that very same day. When I got to heaven, I would feel stupid, because I would tell myself: ‘The last day of my life, I did something I truly hated — vacuuming!’”
“What?” Charles protested, bowled over by this totally unexpected philosophy. “You can’t think that way! You can’t live your life and base your purchasing decisions on your possible death!”
“Not only can I, but I do,” I explained. “Because you never know when you’re going to die, and I would prefer not to run the risk, I prefer to “play it safe,” and everyday I do more things that are fun and less things that are not fun.”
He asked me how I earned my living.
When I said: “I’m a novelist,” he replied: “Oh…,” as if I had just admitted to being a lunatic, and he didn’t insist. He packed up his merchandise and left.
It may seem a little excessive, or crazy, as a philosophy —I know. But that’s what I think, more or less…
And I also think that too many people spend their lives… “vacuuming”!
It’s a metaphor, of course, as I had to explain at a conference, to a charming lady who came to find me at the break to tell me, quite desperately: “Mr. Fisher, it took me a year to convince my husband to vacuum, and now that he’s heard you, I need to know what to say to him!”
I told her what I just told you —that it was just an example, a parable. Don’t get me wrong….
You are entitled to vacuum as often as you like, in the morning, in the evening, at night, especially if it turns on your wife: stranger things have happened, but if that’s what it takes, run out and buy an Electrolux!
You also have the right to let your wife vacuum, if it turns her on (which I really doubt) or if it turns you on, which is possible, because you might not have the romantic talent for amorous adventure…
But —unless it is your trade, and you love it, in which case I have nothing against it —don’t spend your life vacuuming.
Especially if you consider it to be an unpleasant chore, and you may be in the process of developing a genius idea for sheltering yourself from the need to do it for the rest of your life, or simply by working for a client for $150 per hour…
Don’t follow in the footsteps of the common mortal, who accepts this obligation year after year, resigned out of habit to spend most of his time doing unpleasant tasks…
The ordinary man may not admit it, but his demeanour gives him away, doesn’t it?
He spends his time making promises to himself, and dreaming of engaging in fun activities one day…
First of all, one day is not enough!
It should last much longer than one day — it should last weeks, months, or even years!
Secondly, he shouldn’t run such a risk. He should be doing fun activities immediately, if of course he remembers how, because once he is dead, it will be too late!
Yes, he should immediately start acting like an eternal vacationer, which doesn’t mean that he should forego all manual and domestic chores.
For example, I like to take care of my roses myself…
Because I love them, and consider them to be almost my children…
And I enjoy taking care of them…
I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I talk to them, but I interact with them, if that’s possible…
I patiently trim them, and they share their beauty, envelope me in their perfume, and present me with a puzzle or enigma when they are in poor health…
I should specify that I don’t have an actual rose garden —just a few beds, and if I had 500 or 1,000 roses, like some, I believe I would entrust their care to a gardener: to each his trade…
I also take care of my vegetable garden, with the help of my daughter, which provides an education for both of us.
I often get ideas while I am doing these tasks!
It’s often when I have my hands in the earth that a dazzling idea comes to me, or I find the solution to a problem that I have encountered in the novel I’m writing, a problem that vehemently resisted my intense efforts. Maybe my efforts were too intense. This is simply proof
that it’s better to be idle than to force an issue!
I also like to do grocery shopping, by myself or with my family.
And I will never give up the pleasure of visiting the Jean-Talon Market in the summer, where I take in the sights and smells of the wonderful displays of fruit, vegetables, flowers, and fine herbs…
You see, I don’t delegate everything — I’m not a maniac when it comes to domestic sub-contracting.
What I have against domestic chores is that I see so many people taking care of their lawns and gardens, driven by the fear that theirs might not be as beautiful as their neighbour’s, and they furiously pull out weeds and search for the most powerful pesticides possible. In short, they spend their weekends obsessed, not only at their main homes, but also at their secondary homes. And to think that they purchased the cottage … so that they could enjoy life!
CHAPTER 10
THE ULTIMATE SECRET TO MAKING
THE MOST OF YOUR TIME
Having retired at the end of his life to the library in an old castle in Bavaria that was made available to him by an aristocratic friend, Casanova wrote his famous Memoirs.
Impassioned by the memories of his countless romantic adventures, he noted, at the very beginning of his prodigal task: “Every day I write for twelve hours, which feels like twelve minutes!”
Twelve hours that feels like twelve minutes!
What a revealing and sublime confession!
Do the 8 or 10 or 12 hours that you spend at work feel more like 8 or 10 or 12 minutes?
Or is the opposite true?
Does every minute feel like an hour, and every day feel like a week?
Isn’t it because you don’t like what you do, and it’s impossible to concentrate when you don’t like what you do?
Isn’t there a direct link between time and love and concentration?
One night, in October 1997, I had a strange dream.
In my dream, I entered a room in which I could hear several women crying…
At the end of the room was a canopy bed covered in large sheets.
I approached the bed, and asked one of the women:
“Why are you crying?”
“Because Pierre Peladeau is dead…”
When I woke up, I asked myself what the dream could possibly mean.
I had known the great businessman Pierre Peladeau for years, because my father had been his right hand man throughout his long and productive career… And he was one of my mentors.
But to have dreamed about him?
And more particularly, of his death?
Because I was not terribly well versed in dream analysis, I put the dream out of my mind, telling myself that it was undoubtedly symbolic of the death of something within me.
I didn’t realize that it was a premonition.
In fact, on December 24 of that same year, Pierre Peladeau passed away following a heart attack and a long coma.
My father, who was the executor of his will, and who often visited him during his long coma, told me one night, when he returned from the hospital: “It was strange, this evening. All of Pierre’s former girlfriends were in his room, and they were crying…”
My dream came back to me.
I asked myself: “How could I have seen an event that hadn’t happened yet? And if I saw it before it happened, was that not because it already existed? Because everything HAPPENS AT THE SAME TIME?”
In short, isn’t it because time doesn’t really exist, but is merely an illusion that fools our spirit, which is too narrow and not awake enough?
Some time after that, I had another dream.
As was often the case when I was a teenager, I woke up while I was dreaming, or at least, I dreamed that I was dreaming.
I came to a huge Greek-style temple.
A wise man was waiting for me. He was sitting in the lotus position, his face radiant, smiling gently.
He told me: “I’m living 1,000 years before Jesus…”
I wasn’t sure that I understood him, and when I asked, he explained further: “Yes, I’m actually living in an era where Jesus is not born yet.”
I thought about my previous dream, and this was merely further confirmation that time did not really exist, except in our spirits… And the wise man added: “You came here so that I could tell you this:
“LIVING IN THE PRESENT MEANS LIVING IN LOVE, AND LIVING IN LOVE MEANS BECOMING GOD.”