All writers should have a strain of hedonism streaking through them. I’m a PG level hedonist. I used to be much cooler and, even if it was wildly inauthentic, I could project a feel of reckless debauchery. Those days are gone. It’s hard to pretend to be something you are not.
I have to say there is something romantic about the hedonist writers of yore. The list is endless and probably any great author falls heavily on the Hedonist Scale. Something about their fully drenched lives, pulsing with wild experiences and enviable moments makes me glassy eyed, a little jealous at their freedom and indifference.
One of my favorite stories was of Christopher Hitchens attending an event at the top of a high mountain. Upon jumping off the ski lift that got him up there he was asked if he’d like a drink and he said a gin and tonic. To which they said, that would be toxic at this altitude, sir. To which he said, better make it a double then. Who lives this life? Who doesn’t want to, at least for a few days of immersive research into a cutting edge talent?
Maybe some day I’ll go nuts and buy a plane ticket and go, go crazy, go everywhere, drink everything, eat everything, see everything, do everything. Maybe.
First I have some laundry to finish.