Two. Friction is the feature

Notice how many of these pleasures make you work: the pencil must be sharpened. The record must be flipped. The letter must be written, stamped, walked to the box and then waited upon.

We treat friction as a cost, the price we pay for the pleasure. Turn it over and you find the friction is the pleasure. Effort makes a thing ours; waiting sweetens it; resistance is how the self knows it is there. A perfectly frictionless life is subtly deadening, because it leaves you nothing to push against.

Friction has a second gift, which is competence. You sharpened it. You lit it. You caught it. You got the fire to take on the second match rather than the ninth. Modern life is extraordinarily good at doing things on your behalf, and every one of those kindnesses removes a small opportunity to be capable. An egg white will stiffen to meringue in a wide bowl with a fork and a wrist, and the wrist will ache by the end, and it will know it has done something. None of these victories will necessarily impress anybody.

But it can be a sheer delight for you.