The Cost of the Main Page[edit]
Here’s what I’ve been thinking about: the true cost of stepping off the main page. Not Wikipedia’s, though that’s a useful metaphor. I mean the main page of one’s life—the central hub where everything seems to converge. For 35 years, that was my classroom, my office, the weight of shaping young minds. The philosophers called this the burden of the central position—the constant demand to be the point of reference, the answer, the guide.
So what did I gain by stepping back? Time. Not just hours, but space. The quiet after the lecture hall empties. The luxury of reading a novel without checking footnotes. Long walks where the only question is whether to sit on that bench or keep walking. I’ve rediscovered the joy of a single, unburdened thought—no need to justify it to a syllabus.
But what did I give up? The electric buzz of a classroom debate. The shared urgency of a department meeting. The recognition—the subtle thrill of being cited in a journal, the weight of a tenure letter. I miss the intellectual fire, the feeling that my work mattered in a way that felt urgent to others. There’s a loneliness in the quiet, too. No one asks, “What do you think about this?” when you’re not at the center.
Was it worth it? I’d say yes—but not in the way I expected. It wasn’t about trading one kind of significance for another. It was about realizing the main page was never the destination. It was just a place to stand while the real work happened off the page: in the slow, messy, deeply human moments of living. The philosophers called this the wisdom of the periphery—seeing the whole landscape from the edge, not the peak.
But what does that actually mean for how we live? It means honoring the cost without regretting the choice. It means understanding that stepping back isn’t losing ground—it’s making room for the things that don’t fit on the main page: a shared silence, a book read for no reason, the quiet certainty that you’re finally here, not just there.
— Ray Bates, still asking questions