I know a man who gave up smoking, drinking, sex, and rich food. He was healthy right up to the day he killed himself.

Perfect health, empty life

There's a dark joke buried in Shaw's observation, but it points at something genuinely unsettling about how we think about health. We tend to treat it as a moral achievement—deny yourself enough pleasures and you'll earn the reward of a long life. But Shaw's pointing out the obvious gap: you can optimize your body into perfect condition and still feel utterly empty, still reach a point where the spreadsheet of a well-maintained life doesn't add up to anything worth living.

The modern wellness culture makes this especially relevant. We've gotten very good at the mechanics of health—tracking steps, optimizing sleep, cutting out "bad" foods. Yet anxiety and depression haven't followed the happy trajectory we'd expect. Sometimes the pursuit of perfect health becomes its own kind of deprivation, another way we abandon the messier, richer parts of being alive. The tension Shaw highlights is that a life lived only in avoidance—of vice, of risk, of spontaneous pleasure—can feel like slow suffocation, even if all your numbers look good on a blood test.

Real wellbeing probably needs both the discipline Shaw's character showed and a willingness to engage with what actually makes life feel worth living. That might be a cigarette, or laughter with friends over rich food, or something less quantifiable entirely. Health as a means makes sense. Health as an end unto itself can become its own kind of trap.