>Life is not meant to be anything, but survival. The fact that there's the idea that you can enjoy life, is a huge sign of privilege. Of course, one should chas

>Life is not meant to be anything, but survival. The fact that there's the idea that you can enjoy life, is a huge sign of privilege. Of course, one should chase it, but don't believe for a minute that anyone is entitled to it. Well said and you are absolutely right! I will argue even more strongly that those whose privilege allows them to even think in these terms have no idea of what "reality" is. Reminds me of a passage in Jack London's The Sea-Wolf between Hump and Wolf Larsen. [Wolf Larsen] “What do you do for a living?” [Hump] I confess I had never had such a question asked me before, nor had I ever canvassed it. I was quite taken aback, and before I could find myself had sillily stammered, “I—I am a gentleman.” His lip curled in a swift sneer. “I have worked, I do work,” I cried impetuously, as though he were my judge and I required vindication, and at the same time very much aware of my arrant idiocy in discussing the subject at all. “For your living?” There was something so imperative and masterful about him that I was quite beside myself—“rattled,” as Furuseth would have termed it, like a quaking child before a stern school-master. “Who feeds you?” was his next question. “I have an income,” I answered stoutly, and could have bitten my tongue the next instant. “All of which, you will pardon my observing, has nothing whatsoever to do with what I wish to see you about.” But he disregarded my protest. “Who earned it? Eh? I thought so. Your father. You stand on dead men’s legs. You’ve never had any of your own. You couldn’t walk alone between two sunrises and hustle the meat for your belly for three meals. Let me see your hand.” ... Wolf Larsen dropped my hand with a flirt of disdain. “Dead men’s hands have kept it soft. Good for little else than dish-washing and scullion work.”