What To Do in 5773
Dr. Ruth, Shmuley Boteach, Mayim Bialik, Shalom Auslander, and 23 more on ensuring a meaningful year
I have no grand resolutions of a spiritual, social, or moral sort. But I do seriously intend to take off at least another 10 pounds this year, which reflects both vanity and a desire at age 65 to maintain my chances of seeing age 75, if not 85, and a lot more of my grandchildren, to boot. I also intend to finish reading Don Quixote on the Kindle. But I said that last year, too.
Elizabeth Wurtzel, author, journalist, lawyer
I don’t know what anyone else needs to do in the next year, and it almost doesn’t matter to me as long as I write a book for the first time in about a dozen years. Looking back on my 45 years of life and looking ahead to likely at least another 45 more, I don’t think much has been worth it, except for the words I put down. Fortunately, they are worth a lot to me, and it seems like to other people along the way. So, it makes no sense that I write so much less than I used to, when I ought to do it so much more. I can only explain that as the worst kind of self-destruction taking over, but what a powerful drive. It is a force so great, it ruins the best thing about a person, and then it makes life not worth it at all. All that havoc could be so easily avoided by just doing what God intended. So, I had better write a book. And everyone else had better do whatever it is he really should be doing. Or what’s the point?
Michael Wex, Yiddishist
For better or worse, we’re living in a society in which higher education is a product to be purchased rather than a right to be claimed, which is why, after four months of coaching my daughter, a petite high-school senior, in the finer points of bankable minority status–“Canards about shillelaghs and those fabled pots of gold have blinded the larger world to the beauty and meaning of Leprechaun culture”—I have decided to make 5773 the year when Wex sells out. Enough drowning in yiddishkeyt; I’m going to pull on my mass-market Speedo and dive straight for the Lowest Common Denominator. Mars Needs Mikves will get me out of debt; its follow-up, an English country-house mystery called No Bris for the Bishop, is going to send my daughter through Harvard. And once she’s there, no one’s going to care that she was borne on wings of shlock.
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