Published September/October 1999
CULTURE
The Pleasure Principle
On the subject of indulgence, it's worth saying that the pleasure connoisseur recognizes the importance of moderation
by Peter Mayle
Jane Austen had it right when she wrote: "One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other."
If Austen were alive today, I wonder what she'd think of one of America's most popular annual pastimes. Would she enjoy reclining on the couch with her needlework and a six-pack to watch the Super Bowl?
Probably not; but millions do, and this is just one example of the infinite diversity of human tastes--a diversity that makes the pursuit of pleasure such a vague, fascinating and frustrating subject. Pick anything that gives you the greatest delight, from drinking Château Latour to listening to Mozart in the moonlight, from watching Michael Jordan to reading Marcel Proust, and you can be almost certain that most of your friends will disagree with your choice. There is no universally recognized formula for a good time.
But while we may differ in the specifics of what we enjoy, it seems there is some common ground when it comes to how we enjoy it. I have noticed over the years that those who take their pleasures seriously tend to observe the same general principles. Nothing as formal as rules, but aids to joy instead. Let me try to summarize a few of them here.
The first and possibly the most important of these principles is a break from the modern passion for instant gratification. Almost everywhere you look today, you are urged to live your life as quickly as possible. For reasons that are not clear to me, a blur of activity is considered desirable--a mark of success, perhaps. Or is it the road to personal fulfillment? I don't know, and I certainly don't agree with it. There are occasions, obviously, when fast is good--room service, headache remedies, IRS refunds--but if you rush the finer things in life, you will miss most of the pleasures they offer. Let the wine breathe, give the Havana the 45 minutes of attention it deserves, allow yourself the time to appreciate the artistry and hard work that has gone into a four-star meal. What is the point of civilized indulgence if you're too busy to appreciate it?
On the subject of indulgence, it's worth saying that the true pleasure-seeker never skimps. (Generosity is an admirable trait, even when you apply it to yourself.) Personally, when faced--as I frequently am--with an inconvenient shortage of funds, experience has taught me that it's better to do without than to make do with an inferior substitute. And so, after many impulsive mistakes, I've learned to wait until I have the time and the money to enjoy the real thing. Patience may or may not be a virtue, but anticipation is certainly part of pleasure.
Like many unfortunate young boys of my generation, I was educated at one of those Spanish establishments that used to serve as boarding schools for young English gentlemen. Cold showers, self-denial and a daily ration of acute physical discomfort were de rigueur and considered character-forming. Enjoyment was not. It was crushed, and guilt was part of the curriculum. It has taken me half a lifetime to recover. I was very lucky to do so, as I now realize whenever I see the way some of my fellow men feel obliged to listen to the nag of conscience every time they are faced with a treat. They make excuses for their lack of self-restraint and discipline. They are already suffering the first twinges of remorse. Guilt perches on their shoulders, ruining the moment. Pleasure doesn't stand a chance.
At the other extreme we find the happy hedonist, the carefree glutton, the master of wretched excess. He is not troubled by anything except his body's capacity to absorb a sensory overload. He wants it all, and he wants it all at the same time--Champagne, recreational chemicals, music, multiple masseuses, sex on silk sheets, pre-Castro cigars--the works. This isn't pleasure; it's a recipe for oblivion. Did he enjoy it? Did he even remember it? While the combining of pleasures, when they are chosen with a little thought, can be extraordinary, there's no doubt that you can have too much of a good thing.
The pleasure connoisseur recognizes the importance of details. I was once invited to share an extraordinary bottle of wine, a Château Petrus from one of the mythical vintages, the kind of wine that the French say should be drunk while on your knees in the attitude of prayer. Alas, it was poured into thick, murky tumblers, as though it were nothing more than an exotic lemonade. Admittedly, the wine was magnificent, but how much better would it have been in a correctly shaped glass, thin-rimmed, ideally of plain, undecorated crystal? Some people might take this for snobbery, but it's not. A clear glass lets you appreciate the wine's color. A properly shaped glass, narrower at the top than at the bottom, concentrates the bouquet. A thin rim is more pleasant between the lips. Does all of this matter? I believe it does, particularly when you're savoring a $750 wine.
So it is with many of life's occasional rewards. They need to be treated with a little respect if they are to come up to expectations. The traveler who rushes through Venice in 24 hours or the Louvre in a morning, the skimmer of great books, the couple with only 45 minutes to spare for lunch at Lucas Carton--they're asking for disappointment; they might as well save their money, stay home and watch television.
I suppose it all comes back to time. If there is any single piece of wisdom that I have found to be consistently useful and true where pleasure is concerned, it is this advice I once received from an elderly uncle: "Slowly does it," he said. How right he was.
Peter Mayle is the author of A Year in Provence.
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