I'm a simple man. All I want is enough sleep for two normal men

Joel Rosenberg, with a wry smile and a glint of irony, once declared: “I’m a simple man. All I want is enough sleep for two normal men, enough whiskey for three, and enough women for four.” Though at first his words may sound like jest, within them lies an ancient truth about the human heart—its hunger, its longing, and its tendency to call “simple” what is, in fact, boundless desire. The ancients themselves would have recognized this saying, for it speaks to the eternal conflict between moderation and excess, between the body’s cravings and the soul’s search for balance.

To call oneself a simple man while desiring twice the rest, thrice the drink, and fourfold the companionship is to reveal the paradox of human nature. Men speak of simplicity, yet their appetites drive them toward abundance. It is not wrong to desire, for desire is the spark of life, but when desire grows beyond reason, it becomes the very chain that binds. Rosenberg’s jest lays bare the truth: man calls his wants small, but they are mountains; he calls them humble, but they are storms.

The Romans knew this tension well. The emperors who called themselves caretakers of the people often lived in palaces of marble, feasting until dawn, surrounding themselves with luxury. Caligula proclaimed himself modest while bathing in rivers of excess, and his desires, unchecked, consumed both himself and Rome’s stability. His hunger for more—more pleasure, more adoration, more power—proved that the greatest threat to man is not poverty of means, but poverty of restraint. Here we see Rosenberg’s humor reflected in history: the simple man who, in truth, asks for everything.

Yet there are brighter examples as well. Consider Diogenes the Cynic, who sought to strip life to its barest form. He lived in a barrel, mocked kings, and carried nothing but a cloak and a cup—until, upon seeing a boy drink with his hands, he cast even the cup away. To him, the truly simple man was he who cut his desires down to what was necessary, not multiplied them. Where Rosenberg’s words reveal the irony of man’s endless appetite, Diogenes reminds us of another path: the mastery of oneself by desiring little.

The meaning of Rosenberg’s words, then, lies in their double edge. On the one hand, they mock the human condition—our inability to be satisfied, our tendency to laugh at our own hunger. On the other hand, they warn us of the trap of calling our excess “simplicity.” For what we name “simple” may be nothing more than unacknowledged greed. And so the wise must learn to laugh at their desires, yet also to tame them, lest they become slaves to what they call pleasure.

The lesson for us is this: acknowledge your desires, but do not be ruled by them. To sleep well is good, but do not chase slumber until you waste your days. To drink is joy, but do not drown yourself in it. To love is sacred, but do not turn women or men into numbers to boast of. Moderation is the true simplicity. The man who asks for little may enjoy much; the man who asks for much will never find enough.

Therefore, in your life, practice both humor and discipline. Laugh at your appetites, as Rosenberg does, but do not give them the crown. Seek joy, but temper it with wisdom. Cherish the gifts of sleep, drink, and companionship, but know when to stop, lest they consume your strength and spirit. Remember the ancients: the feast is sweetest when it ends before excess, and love is truest when it is not multiplied without measure.

So let Rosenberg’s words live not merely as a jest, but as a mirror. They remind us of who we are—creatures who long for more, who call our hunger simple even as it grows vast. But the wise man, knowing this, does not despise desire; he guides it. He walks between laughter and restraint, and in so doing, he becomes truly free.