Cockroaches and socialites are the only things that can stay up

Hear, O seeker of wit and wisdom, the sharp and playful words of Herb Caen: “Cockroaches and socialites are the only things that can stay up all night and eat anything.” Cloaked in humor, yet edged with truth, this saying captures the paradox of human vanity. Caen, the chronicler of San Francisco life, knew well the glittering nights of the wealthy elite, where laughter and indulgence stretched till dawn. By placing them beside the lowly cockroach, he pierced through glamour with irony, reminding us that beneath the sparkle of privilege may lurk something primitive, even grotesque.

The cockroach is a creature despised, yet remarkable for its endurance. It scuttles in darkness, consumes what others throw away, and survives where more delicate beings perish. The socialite, by contrast, is adorned in jewels, mingling in ballrooms and clubs, sipping from crystal glasses. Yet Caen saw in them a kinship: both thrive in the night, both feed indiscriminately, both reveal appetites unconstrained by moderation. His jest, then, was a mirror: to laugh at the cockroach is to glimpse the truth of the socialite; to adore the socialite is, in some strange way, to admire the cockroach.

Consider the gilded age of Parisian salons in the nineteenth century. The aristocracy feasted till morning, banqueting on delicacies, while revolution smoldered beyond their doors. Their endless nights of indulgence, their insatiable appetite for pleasure, bore the same persistence as vermin thriving in the cracks of a city. When the Revolution came, the contrast between their luxury and the hunger of the common people was laid bare. Here, Caen’s humor gains depth: to eat endlessly, heedless of the world, is not refinement but folly dressed in silk.

Look too at the decadence of Weimar Berlin, where artists, thinkers, and socialites filled the cabarets. Nights of excess lit up the city even as economic collapse and political turmoil brewed outside. They devoured both art and vice, much as cockroaches devour scraps in the dark. And though their revelry left behind brilliance in music and film, it also symbolized a society feeding itself recklessly while danger gathered at its gates. Again, the wisdom hidden in Caen’s jest reveals itself: unchecked appetite in the night leads not to strength, but to exposure.

Yet his words are not only condemnation; they are also a recognition of resilience. The cockroach, for all its ugliness, survives. The socialite, for all their excess, adapts to changing times and fashions. Both reveal a truth about survival in the human world: those who endure are not always the noble or the pure, but the persistent, the shameless, the adaptable. To laugh at them is to acknowledge that survival itself often takes strange and unbeautiful forms.

What lesson, then, shall we take? It is this: beware of living like the socialite, mistaking endless indulgence for meaning, mistaking appetite for fulfillment. And beware too of scorning the cockroach, whose persistence carries a wisdom of its own. The path of true greatness lies not in feeding without thought, nor in shining through the night without purpose, but in living with balance—honoring joy without falling into decadence, enduring hardship without losing dignity.

So, O child of tomorrow, laugh at Caen’s jest, but carry its wisdom. Do not be seduced by the glitter of those who feast till dawn, nor sink into the shadows of mindless survival. Instead, learn the endurance of the cockroach, the boldness of the socialite, but wed them to the virtues of temperance, compassion, and vision. In this way, you may dance through the night of life—not as one who merely consumes, but as one who leaves behind a light that endures after the feast is done.