Is somethin’ I ain’t got anything but.” Grammar disaster aside, this quote from the book “archy and mehitabel” [lower case verbatim] by Don Marquis, shines the light on eternity, and its being very dark indeed. This is a book I recommend to everyone. And I mean absolutely everyone. It was given to me when I was a wee sprog, as my Gramps used to call me, in Junior Achievement (yeah, go read my book; I started this motivational stuff early). One of our group supervisors, a lovely man named Dale Desislets (romantic handle, or what!), who back then, when it was okay for a man to lead a group of adolescents, befriended me. He believed in me, and my father didn’t. So, I worshiped Dale. (We do have choices.) At the end of my tenure in JA, he handed me the book, wrapped beautifully, and with an inscription that read: “A book: to the person who can’t type, by a cockroach who can. Love, Dale.”

Permit me to explain. Archy is a cockroach, the reincarnation of a free-verse poet who lives in New York. At night, he comes out of hiding and hops about the keys of the old manual typewriter in an office, but he hasn’t the strength to operate the shift key while also typing letters, so his work is all lower case. Mehitabel is a cat, of dubious class, with whom Archy hangs about, even travels (in their minds). When they journey to the museum, Archy comes up with his “Old King Tut” poem. Dale’s inscription to me meant something; I was born left-handed in the Dark Ages in the U.K. and made to sit on my bedevilled hand; this resulted in mild dyslexia (best deal for a writer, eh?), which, working with the Association for the Neurologically Disabled (AND) in Toronto in my childhood, I was able to more or less control, but I was never able to learn touch-typing. Hence his comment. It did not deter me from becoming a writer (although, maybe it should have; you be the judge), and I can play badminton with both hands. This, to me, is overcoming an obstacle. 

My copy of “archy and mehitabel” is yellowed and dog-eared, but I still read it now and then because it makes me laugh out loud, which is excellent good medicine for whatever ails you, so I highly recommend it.

But this book review isn’t actually about a cockroach and his cat, it’s about another book entirely (I do digress now and then), a book entitled “Four Thousand Weeks”, with the subtitle, “Time Management for Mortals”. Yes, roughly the length of a lifetime in western nations in 2024. Penned by Oliver Burkeman, it is a stark and deeply human voyage into the limited time we have to live. He’s in my corner.

This book is flawless, and you won’t see that in writing from my hand very often. It’s real, realistic, and motivational in the best sense of the word. Like my book, it celebrates us being here, acknowledges our daftness on occasion, and states clearly our limitations. Time. If four thousand weeks is about how long we can reasonably expect to live, notwithstanding flying merde or other anomalies, and there are 52 weeks in a year, this allows for a time span of 76.9 years. That’s about the right number for USA; in Canada it’s 82.

Of course, I know people who have passed 100, but let’s go on the premise that Mr. Burkeman’s life expectancy numbers are close enough to accurate, and even if you did make it to 100, are the years after 76.9 worthwhile? It’s different for everyone. 

This, dear readers, is a book I would fork out the money for and buy. Why? Because you want this one in your permanent library for life, read it once a year, without fail, and then pass it on to your heirs and assigns. It’s essential to making the most out of your presumed four thousand weeks. Burkeman breaks it down into sensible sections and chapters, with direct tools that can be used to give you a path. No, he doesn’t ask you to buy stuff or attend rah-rah seminars. He teaches. You get to read and absorb. 

I know that I advocate not spending money on stuff to motivate your fanny, so if you doubt me on this one, borrow it from the library first. Just read it. Do it. It’s within you and, in my humble opinion, you owe this to yourself.