“Me, me, me is dull, dull, dull”

I am not interesting. Neither are you.

What we do and can do — that can be interesting.

What we know — that can be interesting.

What we have seen and read — that can be interesting.

What we like and don’t like and why — that can be interesting.

Our experiences and what we learned from them — that can be interesting.

But ourselves?

Our motivations? Justifications? Self-deceptions? Self-pity? Daydreams? Nightmares? Peeves? Infatuations? Grudges? Boasts? Disappointments? Ailments? Genealogies? Things that are ours and ours alone; completely internal and non-transferable?

Dull, dull, dull.

Someone might listen to us tell those things because they love us and can see we need to get them out. We all need to talk about ourselves sometimes, and one of our duties to our friends and family is to listen to them in their times of need. But it’s morbid to think too often about ourselves, and rude to inflict our internal monologues on strangers.

Self-knowledge is that rare kind of gift: the kind most precious when not shared with others.
(I believe the quote in the title comes from this book.)

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