Perfection may be a perfect word,
but it causes a lot of imperfect things:
a perfect storm, a perfect murder
or that hollow feeling when the bell rings.
I quit my own pursuit of perfection
long ago when it nearly cost me my life.
I was so busy trying to be flawless
I almost lost my health, my job and my wife.
My perfect mind was always a tortured one.
So was my perfect body.
Now I strive for 80 per cent of my goals
and think it a miracle if I can achieve 20.
I never carved a perfect turn
or baked a perfect cake.
And coaches who tell you to give 110 per cent,
they really need to give their heads a shake.
The ancient Greeks’ pursuit of perfection
still makes for useful university fodder.
But the Germans’ obsession with the perfect race
led millions to the slaughter.
There is no such thing as pure perfection.
All we can do is to try our best
in the best of all possible worlds,
and stop forever beating our chest.