A Coin from a Cadaver's Eye

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Albert Einstein. Let's talk about Albert Einstein for a minute. Let's talk about Albert while the moon rests in its decaying orbit, because I've got a theory about Albert. It goes like this: Einstein came up with his crowning achievement, the theory of relativity, while working as a clerk at a patent office. History holds that the ambitious Mr. Einstein owes some of his success to the fact that he had an undemanding job which allowed him plenty of time to develop his tricky and oh-so-important theory.

I don't think history got it exactly right. History is a vacuum, screaming at us to fill it up.

I think that Einstein made his greatest breakthrough while working as a lowly patent clerk not because he had time on his hands, but because he was starving.

And because a starving man will do anything to eat.

Personally, I doubt that the capacity for genius declines, just the hunger that fuels it.

This then is the first half of our twirling coin tonight, thirsty nomads; that a starving man will do anything to eat. This simple, blunt-edged truth is a formula every bit as powerful, useful, and terrifying as E=MC squared. A tiny piece of knowledge that holds the key to immense forces, which of course can be funnelled into construction or destruction with equal ease. Albert did not want to be a clerk. He did not want to be a clerk and the sheer enormity of the distance that lay between what he was and what he wanted to be only ensured that he was starved for it. It was this, and not the time on his hands, that enabled him to cross that chasm.

Of course, it helped that he was a genius, but that's not what we're huddled around the fire to talk about tonight, is it? At this time of night, no one ever wants to talk about the obvious things. That's why I'm a night person.

So.

So if hunger is what fuels us, then what happens when we get what we want? What happens when we get enough? What happens when we become content? This, of course, is the flipside of our dangerous little coin. Contentment.

Now, after relativity, Einstein continued to do some nice work, but he never really did anything of a similar magnitude, did he? Nope. It's tough to choose to break trail when a warm fireplace is waiting for you. I read somewhere that genius fades in the thirties; that genius flourishes in the twenties and then wanes, lapsing into mediocrity. Personally, I doubt that the capacity for genius declines, just the hunger that fuels it. Look at Billy Corrigan. A decade of musical achievement – critical acclaim, commercial success, women throwing themselves at him - everything he could have asked for. Now he makes nice, happy, upbeat rock albums that some of his old fans sometimes buy. In Billy's defence, his stock in trade was angst and it would be pretty hard to maintain a good headfull of angst when everyone loves you and you get everything you want.

It'd be hard not to be content.

That's why Billy is not the same man he used to be.

Richthofen did something Corrigan couldn't do. Manfred von Richthofen, the Red Baron, Germany's top fighter pilot (or at least best publicized) in World War I, kept contentment at bay. Took just enough of that tricky toxin before bed at night so that he could sleep, but not so much that it got away from him, not so much that it got the better of him.

Richthofen had the option to quit. He was a war hero. He had the option to get out, to stop flying, to spend his days giving speeches, shaking hands and spending time with his adoring fans in anonymous hotel rooms. He didn't though. He refused; could not bear the idea of being a "former" pilot; needed more of what he sought; would not be content; continued to do what he had to do regardless of the cost.

And they shot him down.

And he died.

Died in gravity's careless, drunken-love embrace, all fire and tearing metal. But would he really have been better off if he'd retired early and lived longer? Would he have been better off or would he have just become a shadow of his former self, allowed to live only in a diminished capacity, like professional athletes gone to fat? His mother would probably disagree with me, but I'm inclined to think that Richthofen got it right.

Contentment.

Contentment makes you small; makes you ordinary, makes you weak. We all want it, we all seek it, we all need it in some small measure, but God help us if we get too much. Contentment is there to drag us down, to anchor us to our possessions and past glories, to render us impotent and dull. Contentment is the devil in satin lounge-wear, offering you a smooth glass of scotch and pleasant conversation by a roaring fire. But sit down for a spell and next thing you know it's morning and you're older, fatter and too hung-over to get off the couch.

Contentment is the devil in satin lounge-wear, offering you a smooth glass of scotch and pleasant conversation by a roaring fire.

So wherein lays the balance? Yes, that's right, balance. It always comes back to that godless tyrant, doesn't it? Frankly I find it annoying, but then I don't make the rules.

We need some contentment, just a little bit, a little snap before bed to help us sleep. But we must never drink so much that we don't wake up hungry and unsatisfied in the morning. Because once you wake up full and satisfied, it's all over but the reliving of past glories.

Deliver me from contentment.