In the autumn of 1989 my life had gone off the rails after I was forced me to leave a student’s dormitory. I moved back to my parents’ home to gather some courage.
At the time I promised myself to lead an insignificant life. That seemed something even a complete failure like me should be capable of.
But perhaps I am a bigger failure than I imagined as may even not be able make good that promise.
There wasn’t much to laugh for me except for a few episodes of Chief Inspector Jacques Clouseau aired on German television. My parents lived near the German border so it was possible to watch German television.
Despite being completely inept Clouseau always solved the mystery. Guided by a few hunches and some vague clues that only made sense in his mind he always ignored the most obvious explanation of the facts.
The German dubbing made him appear even more clumsy.
How can a bumbling clown like Clouseau be correct while the competent fail? The answer is that Jacques Clouseau is a fictional character in a story. The plot is always that Clouseau is right in the end, by accident.
The world we live in could be fiction too.
And I could be right.
The highest level of failure is failing to fail. Success is inevitable, no matter how hard you try.