The Measure of a Man

by Sidney Poitier

IT’S LATE AT NIGHT as I lie in bed in the blue glow of the television set. I have the clicker in my hand, the remote control, and I go from 1 to 97, scrolling through the channels. I find nothing that warrants my attention, nothing that amuses me, so I scroll up again, channel by channel, from bottom to top. But already I’ve given it the honor of going from 1 to 97, and already I’ve found nothing. This vast, sophisticated technology and…nothing. It’s given me not one smidgen of pleasure. It’s informed me of nothing beyond my own ignorance and my own frailties. But then I have the audacity to go up again! And what do I find? Nothing, of course. So at last, filled with loathing and self-disgust, I punch the damn TV off and throw the clicker across the room, muttering to myself, “What am I doing with my time?” It’s not as if I’m without other resources or material comforts, you follow? I’ve been very fortunate in life, and as I lie in my bed, I’m surrounded by beautiful things. Treasured books and art objects, photographs and mementos, lovely gardens on the balcony. After many years in this particular business in this particular town, I have a rich network of friends, some only a few steps away, dozens of others whom I could reach on the phone within seconds. So what am I doing with my time?