I am shocked and disturbed to discover that for every Penguin classic or slim volume of poetry on my shelves, I seem to own many more books on getting rich, getting laid, losing weight, winning fights, raising daughters, stopping smoking, learning a language and treating one’s own knees.

I’m a sucker for self-improvement, a junkie for self-help, a crack whore of self-motivation.

Zice Tony Parsons, “heavy weight hard talker” la GQ, ediţia britanică, într-un text intitulat “The Kings of Self-Improvement”. Evident, subscriu.

Mai zice şi că:

But of course there are no shortcuts to anything worth having. If you are losing weight or learning martial arts or building a property empire worth billions, you do not do it in ten easy steps. It takes a lifetime, not a lunchtime. (…)

We crave perfection, enlightment and an end to all cares – physical, financial, sexual, emotional, spiritual. When I buy a book promising to reveal the short cut to sex / a six-pack / that difficult second million, I know I am wasting my time. I know in my heart that I can learn more from one page of Graham Greene than I can from an entire shelf of books promising to make me richer, tougher or thinner.

But I also know that our desire for more than we have is what dragged us from the trees, and what makes us get out of our bed every morning, and what drives us on every day and what may yet lead us to glory. We crave richer. We crave tougher. We crave peace of mind.

And when is it enough?

It’s never enough until your heart stops beating.