In Surprised by Joy, C. S. Lewis's autobiography, Lewis describes his ideal daily routine. This routine began during his teen years, when he lived with William Kirkpatrick, the tutor who helped him get into Oxford.

If I could please myself I would always live as I lived there. I would choose always to breakfast at exactly eight and to be at my desk by nine, there to read or write till one. If a cup of good tea or coffee could be brought me about eleven, so much the better. At one precisely lunch should be on the table; and by two at the latest I would be [on a walk]. Not, except at rare intervals, with a friend. Walking and talking are two very great pleasures, but it is a mistake to combine them. Our own noise blots out the sounds and silences of the outdoor world. The only friend to walk with is one who so exactly shares your taste for each mood of the countryside that a glance, a halt, or at most a nudge, is enough to assure us that the pleasure is shared. The return from the walk, and the arrival of tea, should be exactly coincident, and not later than a quarter past four. Tea should be taken in solitude. For eating and reading are two pleasures that combine admirably. Of course not all books are suitable for mealtime reading. It would be a kind of blasphemy to read poetry at table. What one wants is a gossipy, formless book which can be opened anywhere. At five a man should be at work again, and at it till seven. Then, at the evening meal and after, comes the time for talk, or failing that, for lighter reading; and unless you are making a night of it with your cronies (and at Bookham I had none) there is no reason why you should ever be in bed later than eleven.

Lewis goes on to describe weekends during these years:

Such is my ideal, and such then (almost) was the reality of "settled, calm, Epicurean life." ... Meanwhile, on afternoons and Sundays, Surrey lay open to me. I remember autumn afternoons in [valleys] that lay intensely silent under old and great trees. On a Saturday afternoon in winter, when nose and fingers might be pinched enough to give an added relish to the anticipation of tea and fireside, and the whole weekend's reading lay ahead, I suppose I reached as much happiness as is ever to be reached on earth. And especially if there were some new, long-coveted book awaiting me.

It sounds like a nice life, but as Lewis points out, this lifestyle was "almost entirely selfish. Selfish, not self-centered, for in such a life my mind would be directed toward a thousand things, not one of which is myself."