There are parties and there are parties. We like best those where we share our delight in a dish or a drink, a tune or a tale, a gift given wholly to the moment we perceive. In our pursuit of happiness we console the forlorn, cajole the irritant, tend the excessive who partook too much. We cannot bear that the party should cease. Such is life.
For many of us, this weekend is a rite of passage, ending the summer before winter comes. There may be a few more days in the sun, there may not, so we grasp them with an appetite for the finite, sated by the certainty that it will come again. Perhaps this is why we rarely begrudge others the same simple pleasure?
If our world were a party, should we tolerate its destitution and demise? Could we enjoy it? There are no gifts where goods are taken: when we do not give, we cannot receive. True pleasure comes from our endless capacity for some new creation, true joy in the certainty of its return - an echo or improvement on times we have loved. Only in recognising that to own some is to own none of it, do we come anywhere close to owning it all.