The MagazineA few years ago, reading along in Katherine Graham’s soppy autobiography, I came across a sentence that mentioned that the author’s father, Eugene Meyer, had accumulated a fortune of 30—or was it 40?—million dollars while still a young man. I smacked my palm against my forehead. “Damn,” I exclaimed, “I knew I forgot something.” What I forgot, of course, was to acquire a vast quantity of money while still young, so that I could spend the remainder of my days never again having to think, let alone worry, about money. I like money, like what it can do: among other things, allow one to acquire quality goods, help out family and friends and worthy causes, above all bring one freedom to maneuver smoothly through life. I have never discounted the importance of money, yet neither have I ever been able to concentrate upon getting more of it for longer than 50 seconds. “I call people rich,” a character in Henry James’s The Portrait of a Lady says, “when they’re able to meet the demands of their imagination.” What are the demands of mine? Rather modest, perhaps even pathetic, I fear. I have never yearned to live in a large house, nor wanted servants. (I am told that it is a mistake to accept a job that brings with it the services of a chauffeur; when you leave the job, you will miss him so much that life will never again seem quite so good.) Nor have I wanted apartments or villas in foreign capitals or beautiful countrysides. I would only worry, mundanely, about the plumbing going on the fritz when I was away. I like good cars but I wouldn’t be comfortable driving grand ones—Rolls-Royces, Maseratis, Porsches—for I would be nervous lest they bring me invidious attention, causing even mildly envious people to hope that I crash. To read more, you must be a Weekly Standard Subscriber We're Sorry,
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