Fame does lead to money, which I don't have a close relationship

The words of David Duchovny—“Fame does lead to money, which I don't have a close relationship with. I'm the kind of guy who never sees the money—it all goes somewhere else. I don't understand it, I don't like to deal with it. I have a fear of not having it, because I grew up without it.”—are more than a confession; they are a glimpse into the paradox of prosperity. For here a man acknowledges that the wealth born of fame is both blessing and burden, a river that flows around him yet never quenches his thirst for security. This truth is as old as the ages: that riches may clothe the body, but they rarely heal the soul.

Duchovny’s reflection reveals the uneasy bond between man and money. It is a tool, a servant, and yet it often becomes a shadowed master. Those who have known poverty carry within them the scars of want, and though fortune may come later, the fear of its absence lingers like a ghost. This is why he speaks of not having a "close relationship" with it—because money cannot fill the hollow left by its former absence. It is a measure of necessity, not of peace.

History tells us much the same. Consider Marcus Crassus of Rome, the wealthiest man of his time. His gold and estates were beyond counting, yet his hunger for more led him into reckless war in Parthia, where he perished in disgrace. Compare him to Diogenes the Cynic, who lived with almost nothing but found himself freer than kings, mocking Alexander the Great by asking him merely to “stand out of my sunlight.” One drowned in abundance, the other thrived in lack. Both remind us that money, whether plenty or little, is not mastery—it is illusion, and its hold depends on the heart that beholds it.

Duchovny’s fear—the fear of not having—is not weakness, but the natural wound of one raised in scarcity. The ancients would understand this well: for those who have gone hungry, the memory of emptiness is never far. It shapes their choices, their anxieties, their sleepless nights. Even when wealth arrives, it does not erase the early imprint of want. Just as a tree bent by storms grows with a permanent curve, so the soul shaped by poverty carries its mark into every season of life.

The meaning of this quote lies not in rejecting money nor in glorifying it, but in recognizing its limits. Duchovny admits he does not understand it, nor care to deal with it—and in this there is wisdom. For money is a tool, not a purpose. To make it the center of life is to invite misery, but to fear it excessively is to remain captive to one’s past. Balance is the ancient path: to respect it, but not to worship it; to use it, but not to be used by it.

For us, the lesson is twofold. First, we must examine our own relationship with money. Do we cling to it as a shield against fear, or do we scatter it thoughtlessly as if it holds no weight? Second, we must acknowledge the hidden scars of our upbringing. If we were raised in want, we may carry fear even in abundance. If we were raised in abundance, we may be careless in times of want. To live wisely is to confront these inner shadows and to shape a healthier path.

The practical path is this: learn to see money not as an enemy or idol, but as a servant. Let it serve your needs, sustain your family, and empower acts of generosity. Do not measure your worth by its presence nor fear your ruin by its absence. Invest in knowledge, relationships, and integrity, for these are riches that do not fade. And if fear of loss haunts you, turn it into gratitude for what you now hold, and compassion for those still in need.

Thus, let Duchovny’s words remind us: wealth may come, but peace does not flow automatically with it. Peace is earned in how we see money, not how much we possess. The ancients would say: gold is heavy, but the heart must be light. Learn this balance, and you will walk free, whether clothed in rags or crowned in riches.