The serious business of fun

There is a scene in a Wim Wenders film that I watched in the Wits library when I was happily skiving off lectures. I particularly enjoyed the stolen pleasure of the film and remember it clearly.

An angel is comforting a dying man. The guy is unprepared for death because it has struck him unexpectedly. He bemoans all the things he hasn't done with his life. The angel responds with a list: warm oven-baked bread, long lazy summer naps, your children's laughter ... you get the picture. I have been thinking about what my list would look like, especially after recent disheartening events. Sudden death is suddenly a very real option.

If you read the statements of the crazy Islamic State jihadis who orchestrated the murderous attacks in Paris last month and downed a plane full of tourists in Egypt, the al-Qaeda lunatics in Mali, the Boko Haram fatalists in Nigeria who send innocent 11-year-old girls to blow themselves up in a market, and the faceless terrorists who had Belgium in a life-sapping emergency lockdown, you realise that apart from a serious militant agenda, these are all people with a serious antipathy to the kinds of things that make it onto the angel's list.

Not for them the gentle banter of cafe society, especially not on a pavement; the magical, insane inspiration of fashion catwalks; musical interludes and the concert-going folk who enjoy them; public displays of affection on romantic bridges; the breathless excitement of a football pitch; the joys of a beach. They stand grimly opposed to all the lightweight pastimes of humanity - the stuff of dreams and memories, the cotton candy of our days. Sweet and ephemeral, yes, but probably the only things we will really miss when we meet our very own Grim Reaper (hopefully not in the form of a crazed jihadi). These frivolous things we experience with friends and family are the things that give us sustenance, joy and meaning.

So to all the glum, misguided fools who I have mentioned above, I have only this to say: Life is hard, there are terrible problems that complicate our existence in a futile, often appalling way that saps our very essence and erodes all hope that things will get better. But the human spirit is resilient. And I suspect that what makes it resilient is the fact that we hold out in the hope that fun, light-hearted stuff will balance out all the misery inherent in our condition. Simple, ephemeral stuff, like fashion and beauty and a lovely glass of bubbles taken slowly on a pavement cafe as people gently walk on by.