Today is my birthday. I am 58. How that happened, I have no idea.
It always irked me, when I was a kid, to see lists of “What happened on this day in history,” and to note that nothing very interesting had ever happened on my birthday, and that nobody very memorable had been born on the date.
Later, I thought better of it. July 31, it occurred to me, was a tabula rasa, a blank sheet of paper waiting for me to write my name across it, John Hancock-wise.
Until I learned that today is J. K. Rowling’s birthday.
Not only can I not be the most famous person born today, I can’t even be the most famous fantasy author born today.
And then I learned that today is Milton Friedman’s birthday too.
Never mind.
Fame is a fickled wench. She does not deserve our devotion to her. She cannot honor us in return, though many think she can.
Bill Murray said that if you thought you wanted to be rich and famous, try being rich first since fame is a 24/7 job.
Someone, I forget who, said that authors have exactly the right level of fame. You’re famous enough to get a good table at a restaurant, but not famous enough to be bothered on the street.
Well, Happy Birthday anyway! You’re probably leading a more contented life than Rowling – and 58 years is a good thing to celebrate.