My dad was an unhappy man. He used to complain about the slightest thing being out of place - a pen, the honeypot, his special knife with the fattened grip. By the time his health really started failing, his arthritis so bad he could no longer get out of bed, his condition became all he complained about. 'Dorian,' he said, one morning over breakfast, the grapefruit cut up indeed with his special knife, 'I hate myself.' He was 86 years old and, I felt, nearing the end of life, so I took it upon myself to help him die as well as he could, a kind of <a href="https://aeon.co/essays/if-you-could-choose-what-would-make-for-a-good-death">Ars moriendi </a>for the old man. 'But Dad,' I said, for the first time in our 32-year relationship. 'I love you.' When that didn't help, I sent him some Montaigne.

Been here 

What is there left for us to learn from Montaigne on the subject of happiness? For one, that 'back shop' doesn't mean the room behind your place of work. Increasingly confined to his bed, in the crummy 17th-floor apartment that doubled as his home office, my dad read these lines with an eyebrow rais...

Montaigne on the inner life: Don't take life so seriously

Stasher 541942