The Self Illusion

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Last night I finished reading the biography of Howard Hughes – the tycoon, the aviator, the movie mogul, the socialite and finally the reclusive billionaire, housebound by his pathological fear of dirt. At the time of his death, Hughes was worth $2 billion but he ended his days as an unwashed recluse, dressed in rags with long, matted hair, curling nails and the remnants of five hypodermic needles embedded in his arms. Throughout his life he was a man of multitudes and paradoxes. He loathed social contact but then pursued and bedded hundreds or reputedly thousands of women. He would spend lavishly on fanciful movie projects and young starlets but then quibble over a few dollars on the expense sheet. He was a brash, fearless pilot who regularly placed himself at risk during the pioneering days of aviation when he set and broke many speed and distance records, and yet his obsessive–compulsive disorder compelled Hughes to be terrified of dying from germs. His close confidant and advisor, Noah Dietrich, explained in his memoir, ‘There was more than one Howard Hughes.’1

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