"If a man should happen to reach perfection in this world, he would have to die immediately to enjoy himself"

Josh Billings wraps a paradox in a joke: perfection would end the human adventure. Life is motion, friction, trial, error, revision. Perfection is completion, the final chord hanging in the air after the music stops. If a person somehow reached it, the narrative would have nowhere to go; there would be nothing left to fix, attempt, or desire. At that point, only an exit permits enjoyment, because staying would immediately turn perfection into a burden to defend rather than a state to relish.

“Should happen to reach” carries a wink of improbability. Perfection is not a destination on the daily map but an accident bordering on myth. And “immediately” adds the punchline’s urgency: the world of time and mishap cannot host perfection for long. A perfect being among imperfect conditions becomes a contradiction in motion, like a spotless garment in a storm. The moment it meets weather, it ceases to be spotless, or it must be removed from the weather altogether.

There is also a social sting. Human communities praise excellence but often punish it, poke holes in it, or force it to perform without rest. Perfection under public gaze becomes maintenance, a constant warding off of envy, error, and entropy. Enjoyment requires letting go; perfection requires holding on. Death, as Billings casts it, symbolizes the only space where holding on is no longer necessary, where a finished work can simply be admired without the next moment spoiling it.

A theological echo whispers that perfection belongs to eternity, not to Tuesday morning. A secular echo says much the same: perfection is a finish line, not a playing field. The line counsels mercy toward our flaws. Happiness is less about arriving at an immaculate state than about engaging wholeheartedly with the messy process. The pleasure isn’t in being perfect; it’s in being alive enough to keep trying.