Is it possible to have too many figs?
After waiting a year for my fig to fruit again, and picking this whole bowlful, and remaining full of wonder at the miracle that makes it possible for the wintered grey sticks of my little tree to produce plump, cream-fleshed, honeyed fruit, I actually find myself lusting for the bright ruby interiors of the tart Constantia figs I ate long ago. Which shows I am full of figs, so to speak. Lusting for variety.
This is why we require a winter of discontent.
Without deprivation, where is the pleasure in the satisfaction of desire? Where, in fact, is desire? It diminishes. Fades. We become disinterested. The spark is snuffed. The longing forgotten. Appetite is lost.
If we are to live well, we must recognize the gift in the absence of good things, and hope for their eventual return.