Today is Sunday. I slept late, drained of both inclination and strength for activity. I wrestled with guilt and logic, trying to justify my tardiness and lethargy, but they eventually won. Resigning myself to duty, I abandoned my lair for morning ablutions and dressing.
Reading the autobiography of an ancient writer such as de Montaigne (d. 1592, commonly known as Michel de Montaigne, one of the most significant philosophers of the French Renaissance) hadn’t prepared me for his gentle (though punishingly critical) humour at his own expense.
As said to me once, that as plants are suffocated and drowned with too much nourishment, and lamps with too much oil, so with too much study and matter is the active part of the understanding which, being embarrassed, and confounded with a great diversity of things, loses the force and power to disengage itself, and by the pressure of this weight, is bowed, subjected, and doubled up.
We only labour to stuff the memory, and leave the conscience and the understanding unfurnished and void. Like birds who fly abroad to forage for grain, and bring it home in the beak, without tasting it themselves, to feed their young; so our pedants go picking knowledge here and there, out of books, and hold it at the tongue’s end, only to spit it out and distribute it abroad. And here I cannot but smile to think how I have paid myself in showing the foppery of this kind of learning, who myself am so manifest an example; for, do I not the same thing throughout almost this whole composition?
Excerpt From
Michel de Montaigne. “The Essays of Montaigne — Complete.”
The humour is a severe warning, a paradoxical one:
We take other men’s knowledge and opinions upon trust; which is an idle and superficial learning. We must make it our own. We are in this very like him, who having need of fire, went to a neighbour’s house to fetch it, and finding a very good one there, sat down to warm himself without remembering to carry any with him home…for though we could become learned by other men’s learning, a man can never be wise but by his own wisdom. But it is not enough that our education does not spoil us; it must, moreover, alter us for the better.
The conclusion to de Montaigne’s attack against pedantry are these heartening words:
When he arrived at fourteen he was transferred into the hands of four, the wisest, the most just, the most temperate, and most valiant of the nation; of whom the first was to instruct him in religion, the second to be always upright and sincere, the third to conquer his appetites and desires, and the fourth to despise all danger.
Nowhere in that prescription is there instruction to pervert the ambition and knowledge with lesser (though often more popular) desires the extent of which is open to one’s imagination. It is an unqualified recommendation. It is a universal safety net far surpassing for example the notoriety of fame, celebrity, wealth or position (civil or political). It is a mandate without the fulfillment of which one is at peril of being labeled a coxcomb. It is a warning against dangerously self-reflective ambition (literally looking at oneself in a mirror), the result of which only you will truly see.
“My Perigordin patois very pleasantly calls these pretenders to learning, ‘lettre-ferits‘, as a man should say, letter-marked—men on whom letters have been stamped by the blow of a mallet. And, in truth, for the most part, they appear to be deprived even of common sense; for you see the husbandman and the cobbler go simply and fairly about their business, speaking only of what they know and understand; whereas these fellows, to make parade and to get opinion, mustering this ridiculous knowledge of theirs, that floats on the superficies of the brain, are perpetually perplexing, and entangling themselves in their own nonsense. They speak fine words sometimes, ’tis true, but let somebody that is wiser apply them.”
The identity of these great truths is certainly nothing new. Yet for whatever curious reason the warnings are often dismissed as the inconsequential preoccupation of those seeking lesser achievement or those wishing to excuse their incapacity or failure. Nothing could be further from the truth. There is for example no greater emptiness than a man with a full room of stuff without but nothing of substance within. The violation of wisdom, justice, temperance or valiance renders incalculable poison and imbalance. It is our everlasting shame not to advance and promote among our youth and ourselves those theses before all others. The instruction cannot be spared for Sunday school or temple as though it were fictional dialogue or religious rhetoric. And lest we imagine we shall for a time escape the penalty, be assured that the disease is unfettered by time or the ephemeral pleasure of the injury howsoever it may be fashioned or acquited. Long before you die with a smile on your face you shall perish still living but dissatisfied if nurtured by false knowledge. Nor is this threat purely mystical by any estimate. The rot with which we adorn ourselves will soon outweigh our stamina and we shall fall into the mire. Anything else is a joking lottery. The mantle we wear is an inalienable burden whatever its weight, its colour or its cost. We, and we alone, choose.
Yesterday, we planned what proved to be an exceedingly successful Saturday morning outing at Palmetto Bay Sun Rise Café, located at the northern end of the island on Helmsman Way, adjacent to the Yacht Club of Hilton Head and Broad Creek Marina. We’ve been there many times before.
Coincidentally, early this morning, I received my usual Sunday clipping from The London Times—sent, as always, by my erstwhile physician, who is wintering in Australia (they’re a day ahead of us). The article reflected what, to me, is a longstanding breakfast tradition.
The central theme of the piece was the governance of the menú del día, emphasizing affordability above all, followed by considerations of nutrition, popularity, and accessibility. It also touched on the inescapable social convention of dining out regularly, primarily for convenience and companionship—what the Spanish call casas de comidas (literally, “houses of meals”). Sun Rise Café is precisely such a place.
This morning, we were promptly seated inside, not far from the counter where we’ve sat before. The place was packed—inside and out on the adjoining veranda—alive with the commotion of a busy weekend morning. Amid the bustle, I spotted someone whose presence and energy distinguished her as a linchpin of the establishment. Her name is Paula. By her repeated affable attention to the clientele and her darting exchanges with the servers and kitchen staff, she exuded an unmistakable command of the place.
Paula has been attending to business at Sun Rise Café for over 23 years. In our brief chat, we recalled having seen her in past years behind the counter, overseeing the kitchen as a chef. She explained that she is now focused on training new staff. Stepping away from immediate culinary duties has allowed her to exercise an equally vibrant gift—her social warmth, which rises to the level of endearing, almost maternal, affection.
By further coincidence, The London Times article also considered the possibility of employing AI to determine an acceptable menú del día—a reference that mirrored, quite unintentionally, my ongoing exchanges with my physician on the subject of AI and its encroachment upon human roles. Yet, whatever debate may surround AI, there is one point on which I am certain: no technology, however sophisticated, can ever replace the singular charm and desirability of human expression—of people like Paula. Hers is a presence that defies replication, a bearing that is, by any measure, nonpareil.
I unequivocally extol the freshness and flavour of this morning’s breakfast. And as readily I concede that Paula’s presence may have added the je ne sais quoi.
Against All Odds
From the moment Daniel Whitmore was old enough to dream, he was told to lower his expectations.
“You’re not cut out for success, Danny,” his father would say, shaking his head. “People like us work hard and scrape by. That’s just how life is.”
His teachers echoed the sentiment. “Mediocre at best,” one remarked in a report. “Lacks ambition and drive.” It was as though the world had already written his fate before he even had a chance to decide it for himself. But Daniel refused to let their words define him.
At eighteen, he took a job as an apprentice in a modest but stable industry—manufacturing. It wasn’t glamorous, but he saw potential where others saw monotony. While his peers mocked him for choosing a “dead-end job,” he kept his head down, worked hard, and, most importantly, saved every penny he could.
Over time, he climbed the ranks. He studied after hours, took on additional responsibilities, and eventually secured a management position. Still, the naysayers persisted. “You won’t go any further,” they said. “People like you don’t retire early.”
Yet Daniel had a plan. He invested wisely, avoided extravagant spending, and took calculated risks in the stock market. By the time he was forty-five, he had not only built a substantial pension but had also accumulated enough wealth to step away from work entirely. His colleagues gawked when he announced his early retirement.
“You’re leaving now? But you have another twenty years ahead of you!”
“Why wait?” he replied with a knowing smile.
With his newfound freedom, Daniel and his wife, Emily, embraced the world. They traveled across Europe, marveled at the Great Wall of China, and lounged on the beaches of the Caribbean. They returned to a peaceful home where laughter echoed in the halls and the warmth of domestic bliss filled every corner.
One day, as he sat on the patio, coffee in hand, he received a message from an old teacher. “I was wrong about you,” it read. “You made it.”
Daniel smiled. He never needed validation. But there was a certain sweetness in proving everyone wrong.
It was a remarkable discovery: AI can rapidly and skillfully refine any original writing. While I don’t use it to generate content from scratch, I do rely on it to polish what I’ve already written. My process involves composing a piece first, then copying it into the AI app for refinement.
The satisfaction I get from this process is a mix of entertainment and intellectual enrichment. I have nothing but praise for the creators of this software. Additionally, in my experimentation, I use Siri’s voice dictation to compose my initial draft. This feature is particularly helpful when writing on an iPhone, as it eliminates typing and likely reduces the need for spell-checking, since the software handles that automatically.
There is, of course, an ongoing ethical debate about using AI to assist in writing. However, having transitioned from a Smith Corona manual typewriter to this modern approach, I find no reason for complaint. The only improvement I wish for is an enhancement of my own ability to articulate thoughts seamlessly—without the hesitation that often accompanies writing. Ideally, I’d like to express ideas as fluidly as people speak in everyday conversations, free from the constraints of finding the “perfect” word or phrase.
Ultimately, composing one’s own work remains central to the process. AI is inert without an initial input. Even if used to craft an entirely new piece, it still requires direction and creative input from the writer.
There is something imponderable about the sea – its vastness stretches to the horizon and beyond. On a windy day like today, whitecaps ripple across the surface, distinguishing the faint emerald green of the salt water. Though the sunshine offers little warmth, it glistens upon the sea’s restless mantle. My early morning hesitation is carried away on the briny air, swept off the land behind me and out to sea, vanishing beyond sight.
The coastal landscape is a wild tapestry of towering sea pines, swaying palms, and spiny ferns. Near the dunes, the ground is thick with fallen pine needles before giving way to hardier shrubs and windblown sea grasses. A cedar boardwalk, a marvel of construction in such a remote place, extends toward the ocean. Today, perhaps, it welcomes Valentine lovers’ souls entwined in a story as singular and boundless as the sea itself.
This idyllic setting, like all superlative moments, is merely a fleeting interruption in life’s routine of duties and necessities. The gentle sway of the wooden bench offers only a temporary respite from daily concerns. Yet, however brief, it magnifies the richness of life, expanding its scope and imagination in rhythm with the restless sea. The cool salt air stirs the spirit of adventure, evoking the same allure that has lured sailors and explorers across vast oceans for centuries.
Turning inland once more diminishes that sense of boundless exploration, and with it, the weight of everyday obligations returns. Still, I take comfort in knowing that whenever my mind is clouded by despair, a sojourn by the sea will dissolve my restraints, replenishing my thoughts with the boundless and inexpressible gifts of the ocean.
Today, I have pleasantly occupied myself with a series of diversions; first, an invigorating early morning ride on my tricycle; then, the always stimulating Essays of Michel de Montaigne (1877), whose author, incidentally, was born on February 28, 1533. Later, I indulged in a restful snooze overlooking Braddock Cove before revisiting Coligny Beach and Dune Lane, cherished haunts from our time on Hilton Head Island.
Often I remark (mostly to myself) what a singular privilege it is to enjoy such delightfully idle preoccupations. Indeed, I have no hesitation in declaring that this ease surpasses any other advantage I might imagine. It transcends celebrity, fortune, fame or beauty, each an undeniable stroke of luck in its own right, yet none rivalling the profound contentment I derive from my own good fortune. At times, I even consider my ability to relish this luck to be, in itself, a fortunate gift.
Nor do I mistake my serendipity for something as weighty or deliberate as intelligence, wisdom or brilliance of any kind. More often than I care to admit, I have confirmed for myself the wry truth of Phyllis Diller’s salty adage, “The harder I work, the luckier I get!” A reminder, perhaps, that entitlement comes either by merit or by chance – and in my case, I seem to have benefited from a bit of both. Yet, I do not deny the supremacy of luck. Having already survived two catastrophic medical ordeals, I can only wonder what the third shall be.
A natural product of aging is the much-acclaimed result of distillation—whether in fine wine, single malt whisky or the essence of one’s personal inclinations. As I so often remark, in my case, much of what passes for refinement is merely the slow march of progressive decomposition and increasing immobility. Lately, however, I have been struck by the pressing need to adapt to the evolving environment that aging brings. You might assume that acknowledging this necessity would come without hesitation, and indeed, on a physical level, it does. The true challenge, however, lies not in recognizing the changes but in mentally reconciling myself to their unfolding reality.
As with all matters of truth, the foundation lies in admission. In this instance, that includes recognizing the elements of distillation shaped by aging – understanding what one truly enjoys, freed from the constraints of necessity, employment or obligation. This privilege may be as simple as building a train set, crafting a clipper ship in a glass bottle, or, in my case, cycling, photography, music and writing. And, of course, the pleasures of the table—where I take particular delight in the endlessly nutritious and delicious creations of His Lordship, whose seemingly boundless culinary ingenuity has, perhaps unwittingly, drawn me away from the once-cherished custom of dining out.
There is one more acknowledgment I feel deserves mention: the remarkable evolution of technology. While this may seem either self-evident or even redundant—given the widespread adoption of technological advancements over the years—its impact on someone of my generation is both undeniable and profound.
If I were to single out the most transformative aspect of my life, beyond all material changes, it would undoubtedly be technology. My introduction to it came in the mid-1980s when, after much deliberation, I convinced myself to purchase a computer. What followed was nothing short of a nightmare – an unparalleled struggle. Yet, I persisted, eventually advancing from the brilliance of the IBM Selectric typewriter to the silence and speed of the laser printer. From there, an annual cycle of upgrades ensued, each iteration bringing me closer to the cutting edge of innovation. This journey ultimately culminated in my embrace of the iPhone, iPad and MacBook Pro. And Apple Music, for which I can never offer higher praise.
Among the many unexpected benefits of this technological ascent was a complete transformation in photography. I had never anticipated this shift, yet it wasn’t long before I willingly passed my beloved Canon camera to my niece, a professional photographer, and fully embraced the convenience of smartphone photography.
Reflecting on this journey, I marvel at how far I’ve come—from my mother’s old portable Smith Corona typewriter, on which I taught myself to type one summer in the backyard garden of my parents’ home in Djursholm, Stockholm, at the age of fifteen, to the boundless digital world at my fingertips today.
After yesterday’s withdrawal from the cycling circuit, I felt instantly restored this morning as I mounted the sturdy Atlas tricycle and pushed off. Rising promptly at eight o’clock further eased my burgeoning sense of aging—sleeping late feels like an incalculable violation of the day, yet more and more, it is all I prefer to do. It reminds me of my late father, whom I often caught napping on the deck of his house.
The signature mist off the ocean breathes softness over the morning activity, allowing a faint gleam of radiance to filter through the haze. No one wears a raincoat. The air is refreshingly cool and damp, intrusive only in the way that requires a tissue to clear one’s spectacles. I wear a long-sleeve Tommy Bahama silk jersey beneath a woolen Viyella cardigan, complemented by a silk scarf to ward off the coastal breeze. I have not relinquished my short pants for long ones. That much exalted privilege is beyond the preserve of childhood. Short pants eliminate the obstruction of length unequivocally even though all my casual long pants have been measured to what some might mockingly label “flood pant” status. Besides my neuropathic legs haven’t any sensation of weather. Like the rest of me, they exist in the realm of convenient and incontrovertible platitudes.
Okay, I’ll admit it, I’ve found a new toy: ChatGPT.
GPTs (Generative Pre-trained Transformers) are AI models designed to understand and generate human-like text. They are based on the Transformer architecture, which allows them to process and predict words based on context. These models are trained on vast amounts of text data and can perform various language-related tasks, such as answering questions, summarizing text, translating languages, and even generating creative content.
“GPTs” can also refer to customized AI assistants that users can create and personalize for specific tasks, industries, or workflows. These tailored GPTs allow for more specialized interactions by incorporating unique instructions, additional training data, or integrations with external tools.