The pursuit of pleasure, whether it’s a needle in the arm or a trip to St. Barts, always takes place against a background of pain. True happiness can only be found inside the self.
Men speak often of pleasure, seldom of joy. Pleasure is somewhere and something; joy is nowhere and nothing. Pleasure is planned, imagined, curated; joy is spontaneous, uncontrolled and now. Something else: Pleasure has an end. That’s where pain is.
Introverts go to retreats the way extroverts go to Disneyland. Intros love the sound of one hand clapping, of no-one saying nothing to nobody—the sound of silence that Paul Simon made rhapsodic.