Parable of an Ordinary Man

Once upon a time, there lived a man. Now, there was nothing especially different about this man, except that he was by all accounts ordinary, which is a rare quality indeed. This man often found himself in predicaments that made him wish very much that he had some quality altogether inordinary, but, alas, it was not to be--for his gift was unexception, and whether he viewed it as a gift or not, it was his defining characteristic. What this man failed to realize in his blinding dissatisfaction with himself is that, though he may lack the particular talents of others in specific areas, he also lacked their exceptional faults.

This drove the man on a rampant obsession for exception, looking for notoriety in any of the mundane things which he felt might bring him fame. However, try as he might, not only could this man not strive for anything but the ordinary, he could not strive for it in any unorthodox way. In the end this meant that no matter what the ordinary man did, he achieved neither fame, nor satisfaction; exception nor meaning. Whether this lack of satisfaction and meaning was due to his rather ironically exceptional malcontent towards his condition, or instead towards his condition itself, is debatable. What we do know is this: as far as society is concerned, the ordinary man lived a quiet, regular, work-a-day life; never excelling in any area, but never ultimately failing either (except in his own mind). He died without any extenuating circumstances--a figure of no particular note, nor, for that matter, any particular lack thereof.

Is this man to be pitied, or envied?