One of my favourite short form stories is the one told by Leo Tostoy.
It's called "How much land does a man need."
It tells the story of a peasant named Pahom, who believes that if he only had enough land, he wouldn’t fear anything—not even the devil.
Here's how it goes:
Pahom lives a simple life but envies landowners. When he finally gets the chance to buy some land, he feels satisfied… briefly.
Soon, he wants more. And when he gets more, he still isn’t content. The more land he acquires, the more greedy and restless he becomes.
One day, he hears of a distant group of people- the Bashkirs— who are willing to sell land at a very cheap rate.
This is where it gets interesting:
Their deal is simple:
For a fixed price, you can have as much land as you can walk around in a single day.
But there’s a catch — you must return to your starting point before sunset, or you lose everything.
Excited, Pahom sets out early in the morning. As he walks, he keeps pushing further, thinking, “Just a little more land… just a bit more.”
He ignores the heat, exhaustion, and time.
By afternoon, he realizes he’s gone too far and must rush back before sunset. Panicked, he starts running. His body is failing, his breath is heavy, but greed drives him forward.
Just as the sun is setting, he reaches the starting point and collapses.
Dead.
In the end, his servant buries him in a grave.
Six feet long.
The lesson:
All the land he chased…
All he truly needed…
was enough to be buried in.
I hope that answers the question of how much money is really enough money
Ever since I got married, I haven’t ironed clothes. I mean, marriage comes with benefits, right? And in my house, one of those benefits is a husband who irons.
So for years, I’ve happily handed over anything that looked remotely wrinkled and carried on with my life.
Now I’m on a trip by myself, and suddenly I’ve discovered two things:
I may have forgotten how to iron.
I am definitely too lazy to relearn.
I’ve been walking around in rumpled clothes, convincing myself it’s a fashion statement.
The worst part? I packed outfits that clearly require ironing. At home, that would have been someone else’s problem.
Some husbands really do spoil their wives. You don’t fully appreciate it until you’re standing in a hotel room staring at a wrinkled shirt and wondering if hanging it in the bathroom during a hot shower counts as ironing.
I miss my personal ironing department.
One of the most difficult things I've had to do in life is breaking the news of someone's death to another person. I've had to do it twice and it's never pleasant.