The Man Who Did Nothing (story below)
Edgar Bloom announced his decision on a Tuesday morning, shortly after breakfast, while the kettle was still warm.
“I am going to do nothing,” he said to no one in particular.
At first, it sounded like the sort of declaration people made before eventually doing something else. Edgar, however, meant it with the solemnity of a vow. He sat down in the armchair by the window, folded his hands, and waited for nothing to happen.
Nothing obliged.
From that day forward, Edgar committed himself to inaction with an almost athletic discipline. He did not work. He did not marry. He did not travel, protest, invent, create, improve, or regret. He allowed food to be placed near him and consumed it without preference. He slept when sleep arrived and woke when it left.
At first, people took note. Newspapers ran short items: “Local Man Chooses Nothing”. Philosophers wrote letters asking if he might clarify his position. Edgar did not reply. Children visited him on school trips. They stared, waiting for something interesting to occur. One child asked, “Is he finished yet?” A teacher said, “No, he’s still doing it.”
Old age came without ceremony. His body continued its private negotiations: bones thinned, breath shortened, skin folded itself patiently. Edgar made no comment.
On his final day, the light through the window lingered longer than usual. He lay still, listening to the smallest sounds: a clock ticking, the soft cut of wings passing overhead.
It was then he decided to speak. When a visitor asked him, gently, “Why?” Edgar considered this for a long moment, as though testing the weight of the word.
“I was afraid I’d choose the wrong path through life,” he said at last. “So I chose none.”
He paused. “And somehow,” he added, “it still took me exactly where I was meant to go.”
The Man Who Did Nothing (story below)
Edgar Bloom announced his decision on a Tuesday morning, shortly after breakfast, while the kettle was still warm.
“I am going to do nothing,” he said to no one in particular.
At first, it sounded like the sort of declaration people made before eventually doing something else. Edgar, however, meant it with the solemnity of a vow. He sat down in the armchair by the window, folded his hands, and waited for nothing to happen.
Nothing obliged.
From that day forward, Edgar committed himself to inaction with an almost athletic discipline. He did not work. He did not marry. He did not travel, protest, invent, create, improve, or regret. He allowed food to be placed near him and consumed it without preference. He slept when sleep arrived and woke when it left.
At first, people took note. Newspapers ran short items: “Local Man Chooses Nothing”. Philosophers wrote letters asking if he might clarify his position. Edgar did not reply. Children visited him on school trips. They stared, waiting for something interesting to occur. One child asked, “Is he finished yet?” A teacher said, “No, he’s still doing it.”
Old age came without ceremony. His body continued its private negotiations: bones thinned, breath shortened, skin folded itself patiently. Edgar made no comment.
On his final day, the light through the window lingered longer than usual. He lay still, listening to the smallest sounds: a clock ticking, the soft cut of wings passing overhead.
It was then he decided to speak. When a visitor asked him, gently, “Why?” Edgar considered this for a long moment, as though testing the weight of the word.
“I was afraid I’d choose the wrong path through life,” he said at last. “So I chose none.”
He paused. “And somehow,” he added, “it still took me exactly where I was meant to go.”