What is it to live a good life?

The more he is lying the wider his eyes get.

      I'm used to it. Moreover, I don't mind. If someone is discovered in a barefaced lie, to me it is as someone is joking. Or doing a magic trick. Or praying. I'm acting if I'm a bystander, looking at the situation. I actually don't care. It happens to me. It does not affect me.

      "So, all of a sudden I see the child in the pond. It just had slipped into the water. Or had fallen into it. She waved, she screamed, yelled, shrieked."

      His heavy body leans against the quay wall. Behind him, the wide river flows slowly to the ocean. Sail boats are floating on the water. It's early September. But it is still summer. When I close my eyes and let the sun shines on my fresh face, it's like I'm in Valencia. Or at Rhodes.

      Or is that what I'm longing for?

      "Off course, I was not the only one in the park. Mothers with small children, elderly people with white dogs, runners with sophisticated earphones, unemployed middle-aged men, student with laptops and cheap beer, within seconds they were gathered around the small pond."

      His voice is hoarse but powerful. I never asked him, but I can imagine that he must have been auctioneer in his working life. Or a preacher of penitence. Or a conservative political leader. When he speaks, you cannot ignore him. As if his words grab you by the neck and force you to stay focussed.

     But I wonder if he has had it, an active life

     "I stood there, leaning on my wooden crutches. Birds were flying in the air if it was a bank holiday. The grass scented if that particular afternoon only poets were invited in the park."

     He sighs deeply. His complete pear-shaped body moves in sync.

     Wobbling like a metal plate.

     "Meanwhile, the girls crying became more and more intense. Her face disappeared almost below the surface of the water. With her thin arms she made ​violent, writhing movements. A swan which is attacked by a large water rat."

     I encounter him. Sometimes twice a week. Sometimes every six months. In the city they call him Blubber. A brief glance at his huge body and you realize why he got this nickname

      "As the girls screaming get higher and she start hitting the water harder, the people seem to become more and more indifferent. They stood in the wet grass like antique marble statues. I realized again. Those who know that they are going to die know better what life mean, then those who are still alive."

     Some call him the Philosopher. But that is a misconception. Blubber is not a wise man. Blubber is a smooth talker.

     But those two things are often mixed up.

     Wisdom and smooth words.

     "Only when I dove into the water - the water flowed immediately over the polished shoes of all those ladies and gentlemen - it woke up a few bystanders from their apathy, and they helped me to rescue the girl."

      I want to ask him why he tells me this story. But when I ask him this question I have to be consistent. Then I have to ask him also why we - as human beings - like to be heroes. Why are we so eager to save the world.

      Why we know so precisely how to live a good life.