I knew a young man who sobbed that he had nothing to contribute to the world: his entire life was a failure. A pat on the back and some sincere sounding sympathy got him talking about a wild drunken weekend he and his friends spent racing around the Pennsylvania outback, only to have their euphoria crushed when their old car bottomed out in the mountains, far from any mechanic or town of any size.
The engine was shot.
What was a spaced-out troop of losers and drug users to do. Several wandered further up the mountain, possibly searching for enlightenment, but this young man stayed behind, took his tool box out of the trunk, and overhauled the engine. The merry revelers were saved.
Wait. This guy was a high school dropout, could barely read, lived in a squat with other addicts and losers, and seriously considered offing himself, yet he was able to repair a complex automobile engine with a Crescent wrench and two screwdrivers?
Respect.
A Celebration of Reading 