The Bomber

HAPPINESS

Far up in the forest, beyond the barn and the bogs, lay the lake, Långtjärn. In my earliest childhood, it came to represent the edge of the world for me, presumably because the grown-ups' land ended there. I often heard it used as a symbolic terminal point, and I pictured the lake as a bottomless pit of darkness and fear.

On the day when at last I had been given permission to go there on my own, all such thoughts vanished. Långtjärn was an absolutely wonderful place. The little lake lay wedged in the virgin forest, barely a mile long and a few hundred yards wide, with glittering water and beaches covered in pine needles. It felt like the innocence of dawn; this was what the world must have looked like before the arrival of humans.

Once there must have been fish in the lake. A small, dilapidated log cabin stood next to the stream. It had been used as a fishing and hunting cabin and was surprisingly ambitious in its construction. There was only the one room, but it had an open fire on the far end, planed floorboards, and a little window facing the lake. The furnishing was sparse: two bunks fixed to the wall, two rough-hewn stools, and a small table.

Thinking back, my happiest moments in life have been spent in that little cabin. Every now and again, I've returned to the peace and tranquillity of the lake; its shimmering surface changing with the seasons. I have lit a fire in the fireplace and looked out over the surface, filled with a sense of absolute harmony. It now shows traces of the ravagings of people: The wood surrounding the road leading to the lake has been felled, but they've spared the trees lining it.

It's possible these words may be seen as provocative and, as such, be interpreted as ingratitude or nonchalance, but nothing could be further off the mark. I'm highly satisfied with the success I've had, but this should not be confused with happiness. Society's fixation with success and hedonism is the opposite of true happiness. We have all become addicts of happiness; constantly striving for more, higher and farther, will never make us satisfied with our lives.

In reality, success and prosperity are far less interesting than failure and destitution. Real success creates a feeling whose exultation borders on the erotic. But it's a banal trip to the stars. A proper failure has considerably more nuance and depth. Prosperity breeds, at best, tolerance and generosity but more often envy and indifference.

The secret of happiness in life is to be satisfied with what one has, to stop climbing and find one's inner peace.

Sadly, I've rarely done so myself. Except in the cabin by the lake.