MAY 23, 2026 – I remember asking my mother one evening when I was young, “Would you rather be great or famous?”
Without answering it, Mother turned the question around. “What would you rather be?”
“Great,” I said. Of course mother had to ask why. “Because . . . Anything can make a person famous if enough people notice, but a great person does stuff that makes the world better.”
Mother gave this explanation her stamp of approval. With that I went back to the den and paged through another three or four issues of my dad’s row of American Heritage magazines (See 4/13/26 post – “How the West was Won”) before bedtime.
I’m not sure exactly what had precipitated my question, but I do remember that general phase of my life—fourth and fifth grades—when I was rather obsessed with wanting to emulate all the historical figures whom I thought to be “great” men (precious few women showed up in my sources; this was 1963/64, mind you) vs. simply “famous” ones. In my mind, Abraham Lincoln was a “great” man, thanks mostly to the moniker he earned after signing the Emancipation Proclamation: “The Great Emancipator.” John Wilkes Booth, on the other hand, made himself famous by shooting a bullet into Lincoln’s brain, but that heinous act certainly didn’t make Booth a “great” man.
As the years passed, it became clear to me that I wasn’t “great” material. I wasn’t tall enough. But I liked to run and was good at it. When marathon running came into vogue, I figured that would be my ticket . . . to fame. After winning a 10-mile road race sponsored by the Minnesota Distance Runners Association in the fall of my first tortuous year of law school (1976), I developed stars in my eyes. American marathoners Bill Rodgers and Frank Shorter had become household names, and in a blaze of unrealism, I envisioned competing in the Olympic marathon in 1980. I trained hard, logging 100 to 120 miles a week, much of it nearly on the balls of my feet. But though in my first marathon—the “City of Lakes” in Minneapolis—I easily qualified for Boston the next spring, “fame,” as it were, outpaced me. I never managed to break out of the top 10% finishers. Olympic runners were in the top 1%. I knew I’d never make it.
Time to seek fame by some other pursuit. But what? Ah ha! I’d always wanted to write a book . . .
As I grow inexorably older, occasionally I reflect on my misguided notions of “fame” and “greatness.” I do this not with regret but purely for amusement. If only I’d diverted my considerable efforts at fame and greatness to learning French, I could visit Paris without having to preface every request for directions with, “Bonjour. Excusez-moi, parlez-vous anglais?” and our grandchildren would be impressed.
Upon more serious consideration, however, I’m just plain fortunate without the bad fortune of being “great,” famous or defined by a fortune. As far as I can observe, such “achievements” as fame, greatness, and fortune are in many ways a curse, and the more prominent the fame, greatness or fortune, the more miserable life becomes. First, because these elements are so fleeting and observers so fickle, the achiever can never let up; miss your next lay-up and you could find yourself laid up in the fame-greatness-fortune recovery ward.
Moreover, once a person achieves fame, greatness or fortune, true friendship is often exiled: How now does the person know who’s a friend despite success and who’s a friend because of it?
In the immaturity of my youth, this question of fame vs. greatness wouldn’t have occurred to me. Now that I have no prospect of becoming great, famous, or hyper-rich, I can count my blessings.
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
