I like to read and listen to music and go for walks and travel

Hear, O seekers of balance and harmony, the words of James Spader, who once said: “I like to read and listen to music and go for walks and travel and see art. I enjoy cooking and eating and spending time with my family. I don’t really find myself searching for things on the television very much.” Though spoken in modest simplicity, these words resound like a hymn to the timeless joys of life, the treasures that endure when fleeting distractions fade.

To read is to converse with the minds of ages, to open the scrolls of wisdom and imagination left by those long departed, yet still alive in ink and thought. To listen to music is to hear the eternal language of the soul, a voice that needs no words, that stirs the heart as surely as the rising sun stirs the dawn. To walk and to travel is to remember that the earth itself is a vast book, and each step, each journey, turns another page. To see art is to glimpse the visions of dreamers who refused to let beauty die. These pursuits are not fleeting pleasures, but nourishment for the spirit.

When Spader speaks of cooking and eating, he lifts up the humble table to a place of reverence. For to prepare food is to join in creation itself, and to share it is to weave bonds of love and community. To eat with joy is not merely to satisfy hunger but to celebrate life. And above all, to spend time with family is to sit within the circle of belonging, to be reminded that no man is truly alone, that the bonds of kinship are a fortress against despair.

His dismissal of the television is not disdain, but discernment. The endless search for flickering images, for noise and spectacle, is compared here with the lasting richness of books, music, art, and family. Spader’s words remind us that too often men chase shadows on a screen, forgetting the deeper joys that require no electricity, no broadcast, only presence. He urges us to choose the eternal over the ephemeral, the real over the artificial.

Consider, O listener, the tale of Marcus Aurelius, the Roman emperor who ruled vast legions yet found his truest wisdom not in conquest, but in his private writings, later known as Meditations. Though he could have drowned in spectacle and power, he instead turned to the quiet—reflection, family, philosophy. His strength came not from distraction, but from discipline and presence, just as Spader’s words encourage us to look beyond the glowing screen and into the richness of simple living.

The meaning of these words is therefore profound: true contentment is found not in restless searching, but in savoring the treasures already at hand. The book by your bedside, the song in your heart, the walk through your neighborhood, the meal prepared with care, the laughter of your loved ones—these are the roots of joy. The television may entertain for a moment, but it seldom nourishes the soul.

The lesson for you, O child of tomorrow, is this: choose presence over distraction. Fill your days with what is lasting—reading, music, art, family, and the joys of the earth itself. Let not the endless flicker of screens steal the hours meant for memory, for creation, for love. Entertainment fades; experience endures.

Practical action follows: set aside time each day to read, to walk, to cook with care, to sit with those you love. Limit your search for shallow distractions, and instead seek depth. In doing so, you will cultivate a life both richer and calmer, a life where joy is not consumed, but savored. For in the end, as Spader reminds us, the truest pleasures are not found in the restless search for novelty, but in the timeless gifts already within our reach.