Before, now or then?

What is better? The anticipation, the moment itself, or the memory of it? I know someone who claims it’s the moment, and would even dare disagree with Winnie-the-Pooh. I find it an absolute disgrace to Pooh, who might be a bear of very little brain, but he does know something about a little something (which usually is honey in his particular case). And if he claims it’s anticipation – anticipation be it. I’m not going to disagree, because Pooh is a friend of my brother Rabbit, and if he’s a friend of my brother, he’s also a friend of mine. Disagree – it’s not what you do to friends, is it?

But, wait a second… How about a Very Nice Surprise which was a surprise? So you couldn’t possibly anticipate it, and that’s why it was soooo nice? Would the moment itself win in such cases, as there was no anticipatory pleasure? No, no, in a rare case like that (as Very Nice Surprises are scarce in this world saturated with careful planning) it’s the memory that becomes better than the Very Nice Surprise. (In Pooh’s terms: if he run out of honey, and a friend of him unexpectedly offered him a new jar filled with the golden liquid, recalling the moment of getting the jar would win with the actual getting and emptying it).  With time passing by, the memory swells and grows, the moment becomes even more poetic or spectacular, the pleasure – divine. You forget that your feet were sore and that the air was a bit too cold, and that it was a little late, and you had a perspective of a very short night and a very tiring red-eye day awaiting you. What stays is the essence – now polished, embellished and stylishly framed.

That someone I know still claims she prefers the moment above all memories or anticipations. And as she’s telling me that, I ask her to tell me her favourite story. And I listen, and it’s great indeed, full of thrills: wind in her hair and sand in her shoes, a moon like a slice of an orange, and a hand in a stranger’s hand. I listen with an open mouth, and begin to wish I was there, too. I picture the wind in my hair, the sand in my shoes, the moon like a slice of an orange and my hand in a stranger’s hand. I’m almost convinced – that moment truly was exquisite!

But it’s not happening now, my dear! It’s just a memory.

You’d need to try and convince me once again. Empirically. Take me there with you next time.