We must beware the revenge of the starved senses, the embittered animal in its prison.
One of the delights beyond the grasp of youth is that of Not Going. Not to have an invitation for the dance, the party, the picnic, the excursion is to be diminished. To have an invitation and then not to be able to go -- oh cursed spite! Now I do not care the rottenest fig whether I receive an invitation or not. After years of illusion, I finally decided I was missing nothing by Not Going. I no longer care whether I am missing anything or not.
Interpretation
What this quote means
The quote reflects the realization that not participating in social events is less significant than expected, emphasizing a freedom from societal expectations.
J. B. Priestley's quote captures a transformative perspective on social invitations and the often-cherished desire to belong. It suggests that over time, one can learn that the weight of social approval and the fear of missing out are fleeting illusions. As we mature, we may find empowerment in prioritizing our own choices and discovering contentment in solitude, ultimately asserting that the pressures to conform to social norms can be liberating when we decide not to care about them.
Themes
In practice
Example use cases
During a speech about self-acceptance, one might use this quote to emphasize the importance of choosing not to conform.
More from J. B. Priestley
All quotes βBut some of us are beginning to pull well away, in our irritation, from...the exquisite tasters, the vintage snobs, the three-star Michelin gourmets. There is, we feel, a decent area somewhere between boiled carrots and Beluga caviare, sour plonk and Chateau Lafitte, where we can take care of our gullets and bellies without worshipping them.
A novelist who writes nothing for 10 years finds his reputation rising. Because I keep on producing books they say there must be something wrong with this fellow.
Much of writing might be described as mental pregnancy with successive difficult deliveries.
There is romance, the genuine glinting stuff, in typewriters, and not merely in their development from clumsy giants into agile dwarfs, but in the history of their manufacture, which is filled with raids, battles, lonely pioneers, great gambles, hope, fear, despair, triumph. If some of our novels could be written by the typewriters instead of on them, how much better they would be.
We plan, we toil, we suffer - in the hope of what? A camel-load of idol's eyes? The title deeds of Radio City? The empire of Asia? A trip to the moon? No, no, no, no. Simply to wake just in time to smell coffee and bacon and eggs.
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