You define a good flight by negatives: you didn't get hijacked

Hear the words of Paul Theroux, wrapped in irony yet weighted with truth: “You define a good flight by negatives: you didn’t get hijacked, you didn’t crash, you didn’t throw up, you weren’t late, you weren’t nauseated by the food. So you are grateful.” At first these words may sound humorous, but within them lies the deeper wisdom of perspective—the teaching that safety, stability, and peace are often measured not by grand achievements, but by the absence of disaster. The human heart often forgets this truth, for it longs for splendor, yet Theroux reminds us that gratitude is born when we recognize what did not go wrong.

A good flight, he says, is not remembered for the luxury of its meals or the elegance of its attendants, but for what did not happen. No fire in the sky, no sickness in the belly, no delay that steals hours, no terror of hijackers. In this litany of “did nots” lies the foundation of contentment: the recognition that ordinary safety is itself a blessing. What appears mundane is in fact miraculous—that human beings should soar in metal wings at great speed across the heavens, and emerge unharmed, fed, and delivered.

The ancients knew this wisdom well. The sailors of old, when crossing the wine-dark sea, offered sacrifices not for the thrill of the voyage, but for the storms that did not arise, for the reefs that did not shatter their ships, for the pirates that did not descend upon them. A good voyage was not one filled with glory, but one that ended with safe return. Odysseus himself was hailed not because his journey was comfortable, but because, against countless perils, he did not perish. His story was a hymn to survival, the same truth Theroux proclaims in the modern sky.

Consider the airmen of the Second World War, flying through clouds of flak and fire. Their joy upon landing was not in fine meals or punctuality, but in the simple fact that their plane had not fallen. Each negative—“we did not burn, we did not fall, we did not die”—was a cause for thanksgiving. Their gratitude was fierce, born not of luxury but of survival. In them we see the ancient principle renewed: that when the great dangers are avoided, the absence of calamity is itself abundance.

Theroux’s words strike also at the human tendency toward ingratitude. We complain of poor meals, of narrow seats, of minor delays. Yet we forget that flight itself is a marvel unknown to our ancestors, that to sit in the heavens and be borne across continents in hours is a wonder once reserved for gods. Gratitude grows not when we demand perfection, but when we see how many things might go wrong, yet did not. To be ungrateful is blindness; to be grateful is wisdom.

The lesson, then, is clear: measure your blessings not only by what you have gained, but by what you have been spared. Learn to rejoice in the negatives, for they are often the quiet guardians of life. A day without disaster is a day of hidden grace. A journey without tragedy is a triumph, even if it was ordinary. To train the heart to see this is to unlock unshakable contentment.

Practically, this means: pause in your travels, and in your life, to note the dangers that did not touch you, the storms that did not fall upon you, the sicknesses that did not take root. Be grateful for what you have, and equally for what you have escaped. Speak thanks not only for visible blessings, but for invisible protections. In doing so, your spirit will find peace, even in the most ordinary of journeys.

Therefore, O seekers of perspective, let Theroux’s words be your compass. A good flight, a good life, is not always filled with glittering triumphs, but with the quiet absence of ruin. To recognize this is to be truly grateful. For safety is a gift, and survival is victory, and to arrive unharmed at the end of the journey is a blessing worthy of praise.