Hello, Hello, Hello

A little while ago - as in, probably too long ago to still be thinking about it - I read a postmodernist novel called Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert. The point of mentioning this book here is not to discuss the plot, but there is a concept that is impressed upon the readers of the book that has stayed with me since I read it and this is the concept of a mediocre life.

Most books will write about a protagonist who gains something spectacular, who makes a name for themselves or who experiences great love. This is why we have tropes like "the chosen one". Like all people, I think I always wanted 'greatness' - whatever that meant. I think I wanted to be known, to have too many friends to count, to be loved. Maybe become famous for a painting I did or a sculpture I made. But Madame Bovary tells the story of a life that is anything but great.

For starters, the main character of the book - the one after whom the book is named - isn't described until several pages in and after their story is complete, the story continues on as if to let the reader know how unimpressive an effect the main character truly had on the rest of the story. None of the characters really amounted to anything.

At the time of my reading this book, I hated it. I absolutely loathed it. But I find myself thinking about it every single day.

I've been thinking about this story a lot recently and about how we live our lives. There is one man in particular - my grandfather - whose life is fascinating to me at the moment.

He was a strange person. I wouldn't know how to describe him except that there was stoop in his back and ka wicked smile as he said, "Well, hello, hello, hello". He taught me about his hobbies and showed me books and worked his pitch about the items he would make and sell. He was always a talker and loved things that would never cross anyone else's mind. He would flick between different interests as if it were nothing, and a beautiful landscape painting - good enough to be in a museum - sat in the corner once when I was in the house with him and he said he'd done it. It had his name etched into the bottom corner.

He would smoke in the backyard and tell me how he started when he was just 14 and didn't know if he would ever quit. He put so much sugar in his tea I wondered that it would ever dissolve. He snuck me Monte Carlo biscuits and slipped some for himself. I suppose he was handsome once, full of ideas. He always seemed happy.

But he was flaky and single-minded, stuck in his ways. We had an argument once over my chosen career and I let him win because he wouldn't stop talking over the top of me.

And then he was gone, off on an adventure and calling me up on my birthday to tell me about his year, and whether it was good or bad he would have something to laugh at himself about. Or he'd call me up so he could threaten my boyfriend with a gun he didn't have 'to keep him in line'.

He once told me that no one should ever settle down until they're 27 and I'm afraid I may have taken it to heart, no matter how flippant it might have been.

This strange man - I was never sure whether I truly liked him or not. Loved him, sure. Liked him? Understood him? I'm not as sure.

He drifted in and out of our lives for a few years, travelling back to our hometown when it suited him and that was fine. I didn't mind seeing him and I didn't mind when I didn't. He was interesting to talk to and I could always ask him questions and he would answer.

But the next time he came back he was sick. And he didn't want to go to the doctors or to fill out forms. He didn't want to do any of it. He wanted to stay home in front of the TV and his back was more stooped than before and he'd stopped smoking cigarettes in the backyard and adding that fifth spoonful of sugar to his tea.

He was scared.

"Well, hello, hello, hello" would sound as I came in, but only for a while longer. Just a few months. And there would be complaints about forms and how he couldn't do them but he slept and didn't talk, mostly. The TV was always on too loud.

And when he passed and they lost the paperwork, we could joke that he had had something to do with it. He always hated paperwork, after all.

I didn't know whether to be sad or not then. It's always sad when someone is no longer around. It's always sad. But he was sick for so long that I was almost happy for him. He hadn't wanted a memorial. Memorials are for the living anyway.

So, now, I think about that stupid book that I never liked and think about how it talked about the mediocrity of life and how it continues without you. And I think about this man who maybe made a mark on a few people or maybe didn't and how everyone was neither happy or sad for him, really, in the end.

And I think to myself whether I would be happy with that or not - getting to the end of my life without ever being 'great'. Because this man - who didn't have much to his name when he died - had certainly seemed happy when I knew him. And if he is happy without leaving a mark, can I be happy without that too?

Now that I'm older, leaving a mark on the world seems like more pressure than its worth. I had thought that I would have to strive for something more and that I would want to do that. Now, I am less convinced. And I am unmotivated because what is the point of being 'great' or achieving 'greatness' or being remembered if I wasn't happy while doing it?