{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/wikisource_Counsels_and_Maxims_Chapter_II/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/wikisource_Counsels_and_Maxims_Chapter_II","id":"wikisource_Counsels_and_Maxims_Chapter_II","license":"Public Domain / CC-BY-SA (see source)","rights_basis":"wikisource_site_inclusion_policy","source":"wikisource","source_url":"https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Counsels_and_Maxims/Chapter_II","summary":null,"tags":["Pages_with_translator","Subpages"],"text":"OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES\n\nSECTION 4\n\nThe mason employed on the building of a house may be quite ignorant of its general design; or at any rate, he may not keep it constantly in mind. So it is with man: in working through the days and hours of his life, he takes little thought of its character as a whole.\n\nIf there is any merit or importance attaching to a man's career, if he lays himself out carefully for some special work, it is all the more necessary and advisable for him to turn his attention now and then to its plan, that is to say, the miniature sketch of its general outlines. Of course, to do that, he must have applied the maxim [Greek: Gnothi seauton]; he must have made some little progress in the art of understanding himself. He must know what is his real, chief, and foremost object in life,\u2014what it is that he most wants in order to be happy; and then, after that, what occupies the second and third place in his thoughts; he must find out what, on the whole, his vocation really is\u2014the part he has to play, his general relation to the world. If he maps out important work for himself on great lines, a glance at this miniature plan of his life will, more than anything else stimulate, rouse and ennoble him, urge him on to action and keep him from false paths.\n\nAgain, just as the traveler, on reaching a height, gets a connected view over the road he has taken, with its many turns and windings; so it is only when we have completed a period in our life, or approach the end of it altogether, that we recognize the true connection between all our actions,\u2014what it is we have achieved, what work we have done. It is only then that we see the precise chain of cause and effect, and the exact value of all our efforts. For as long as we are actually engaged in the work of life, we always act in accordance with the nature of our character, under the influence of motive, and within the limits of our capacity,\u2014in a word, from beginning to end, under\na law of necessity; at every moment we do just what appears to us right and proper. It is only afterwards, when we come to look back at the whole course of our life and its general result, that we see the why and wherefore of it all.\n\nWhen we are actually doing some great deed, or creating some immortal work, we are not conscious of it as such; we think only of satisfying present aims, of fulfilling the intentions we happen to have at the time, of doing the right thing at the moment. It is only when we come to view our life as a connected whole that our character and capacities show themselves in their true light; that we see how, in particular instances, some happy inspiration, as it were, led us to choose the only true path out of a thousand which might have brought us to ruin. It was our genius that guided us, a force felt in the affairs of the intellectual as in those of the world; and working by its defect just in the same way in regard to evil and disaster.\n\nSECTION 5\n\nAnother important element in the wise conduct of life is to\npreserve a proper proportion between our thought for the present and\nour thought for the future; in order not to spoil the one by paying\nover-great attention to the other. Many live too long in the\npresent\u2014frivolous people, I mean; others, too much in the future,\never anxious and full of care. It is seldom that a man holds the right\nbalance between the two extremes. Those who strive and hope and live\nonly in the future, always looking ahead and impatiently anticipating\nwhat is coming, as something which will make them happy when they\nget it, are, in spite of their very clever airs, exactly like those\ndonkeys one sees in Italy, whose pace may be hurried by fixing a stick\non their heads with a wisp of hay at the end of it; this is always\njust in front of them, and they keep on trying to get it. Such people\nare in a constant state of illusion as to their whole existence; they\ngo on living ad interim, until at last they die.\n\nInstead, therefore, of always thinking about our plans and anxiously\nlooking to the future, or of giving ourselves up to regret for the\npast, we should never forget that the present is the only reality, the\nonly certainty; that the future almost always turns out contrary to\nour expectations; that the past, too, was very different from what\nwe suppose it to have been. But the past and the future are, on the\nwhole, of less consequence than we think. Distance, which makes\nobjects look small to the outward eye, makes them look big to the eye\nof thought. The present alone is true and actual; it is the only\ntime which possesses full reality, and our existence lies in it\nexclusively. Therefore we should always be glad of it, and give it\nthe welcome it deserves, and enjoy every hour that is bearable by\nits freedom from pain and annoyance with a full consciousness of its\nvalue. We shall hardly be able to do this if we make a wry face over\nthe failure of our hopes in the past or over our anxiety for the\nfuture. It is the height of folly to refuse the present hour of\nhappiness, or wantonly to spoil it by vexation at by-gones or\nuneasiness about what is to come. There is a time, of course, for\nforethought, nay, even for repentance; but when it is over let us\nthink of what is past as of something to which we have said farewell,\nof necessity subduing our hearts\u2014\n\n[Greek: alla ta men protuchthai easomen achnumenoi per\ntumhon eni staethessi philon damasntes hanankae],\n\nand of the future as of that which lies beyond our power, in the lap\nof the gods\u2014\n\n[Greek: all aetoi men tauta theon en gounasi keitai.]\n\nBut in regard to the present let us remember Seneca's advice, and live\neach day as if it were our whole life,\u2014singulas dies singulas vitas puta: let us make it as agreeable as possible, it is the only real\ntime we have.\n\nOnly those evils which are sure to come at a definite date have\nany right to disturb us; and how few there are which fulfill this\ndescription. For evils are of two kinds; either they are possible\nonly, at most probable; or they are inevitable. Even in the case of\nevils which are sure to happen, the time at which they will happen is\nuncertain. A man who is always preparing for either class of evil will\nnot have a moment of peace left him. So, if we are not to lose all\ncomfort in life through the fear of evils, some of which are uncertain\nin themselves, and others, in the time at which they will occur, we\nshould look upon the one kind as never likely to happen, and the other\nas not likely to happen very soon.\n\nNow, the less our peace of mind is disturbed by fear, the more likely\nit is to be agitated by desire and expectation. This is the true\nmeaning of that song of Goethe's which is such a favorite with\neveryone: Ich hab' mein' Sach' auf nichts gestellt. It is only\nafter a man has got rid of all pretension, and taken refuge in mere\nunembellished existence, that he is able to attain that peace of mind\nwhich is the foundation of human happiness. Peace of mind! that is\nsomething essential to any enjoyment of the present moment; and unless\nits separate moments are enjoyed, there is an end of life's happiness\nas a whole. We should always collect that To-day comes only once,\nand never returns. We fancy that it will come again to-morrow; but\nTo-morrow is another day, which, in its turn, comes once only.\nWe are apt to forget that every day is an integral, and therefore\nirreplaceable portion of life, and to look upon life as though it\nwere a collective idea or name which does not suffer if one of the\nindividuals it covers is destroyed.\n\nWe should be more likely to appreciate and enjoy the present, if,\nin those good days when we are well and strong, we did not fail to\nreflect how, in sickness and sorrow, every past hour that was free\nfrom pain and privation seemed in our memory so infinitely to be\nenvied\u2014as it were, a lost paradise, or some one who was only then\nseen to have acted as a friend. But we live through our days of\nhappiness without noticing them; it is only when evil comes upon us\nthat we wish them back. A thousand gay and pleasant hours are wasted\nin ill-humor; we let them slip by unenjoyed, and sigh for them in vain\nwhen the sky is overcast. Those present moments that are bearable, be\nthey never so trite and common,\u2014passed by in indifference, or, it may\nbe, impatiently pushed away,\u2014those are the moments we should honor;\nnever failing to remember that the ebbing tide is even now hurrying\nthem into the past, where memory will store them transfigured and\nshining with an imperishable light,\u2014in some after-time, and above\nall, when our days are evil, to raise the veil and present them as the\nobject of our fondest regret.\n\nSECTION 6\n\nLimitations always make for happiness. We are happy in\nproportion as our range of vision, our sphere of work, our points of\ncontact with the world, are restricted and circumscribed. We are more\nlikely to feel worried and anxious if these limits are wide; for\nit means that our cares, desires and terrors are increased and\nintensified. That is why the blind are not so unhappy as we might be\ninclined to suppose; otherwise there would not be that gentle and\nalmost serene expression of peace in their faces.\n\nAnother reason why limitation makes for happiness is that the second\nhalf of life proves even more dreary that the first. As the years wear\non, the horizon of our aims and our points of contact with the world\nbecome more extended. In childhood our horizon is limited to\nthe narrowest sphere about us; in youth there is already a very\nconsiderable widening of our view; in manhood it comprises the whole\nrange of our activity, often stretching out over a very distant\nsphere,\u2014the care, for instance, of a State or a nation; in old age it\nembraces posterity.\n\nBut even in the affairs of the intellect, limitation is necessary if\nwe are to be happy. For the less the will is excited, the less we\nsuffer. We have seen that suffering is something positive, and that\nhappiness is only a negative condition. To limit the sphere of outward\nactivity is to relieve the will of external stimulus: to limit the\nsphere of our intellectual efforts is to relieve the will of internal\nsources of excitement. This latter kind of limitation is attended by\nthe disadvantage that it opens the door to boredom, which is a direct\nsource of countless sufferings; for to banish boredom, a man will\nhave recourse to any means that may be handy\u2014dissipation, society,\nextravagance, gaming, and drinking, and the like, which in their turn\nbring mischief, ruin and misery in their train. Difficiles in otio\nquies\u2014it is difficult to keep quiet if you have nothing to do. That\nlimitation in the sphere of outward activity is conducive, nay, even\nnecessary to human happiness, such as it is, may be seen in the fact\nthat the only kind of poetry which depicts men in a happy state of\nlife\u2014Idyllic poetry, I mean,\u2014always aims, as an intrinsic part of\nits treatment, at representing them in very simple and restricted\ncircumstances. It is this feeling, too, which is at the bottom of the\npleasure we take in what are called genre pictures.\n\nSimplicity, therefore, as far as it can be attained, and even\nmonotony, in our manner of life, if it does not mean that we\nare bored, will contribute to happiness; just because, under such\ncircumstances, life, and consequently the burden which is the\nessential concomitant of life, will be least felt. Our existence\nwill glide on peacefully like a stream which no waves or whirlpools\ndisturb.\n\nSECTION 7\n\nWhether we are in a pleasant or a painful state depends,\nultimately, upon the kind of matter that pervades and engrosses our\nconsciousness. In this respect, purely intellectual occupation, for\nthe mind that is capable of it, will, as a rule, do much more in the\nway of happiness than any form of practical life, with its constant\nalternations of success and failure, and all the shocks and torments\nit produces. But it must be confessed that for such occupation a\npre-eminent amount of intellectual capacity is necessary. And in this\nconnection it may be noted that, just as a life devoted to outward\nactivity will distract and divert a man from study, and also deprive\nhim of that quiet concentration of mind which is necessary for such\nwork; so, on the other hand, a long course of thought will make\nhim more or less unfit for the noisy pursuits of real life. It\nis advisable, therefore, to suspend mental work for a while, if\ncircumstances happen which demand any degree of energy in affairs of a\npractical nature.\n\nSECTION 8\n\nTo live a life that shall be entirely prudent and discreet,\nand to draw from experience all the instruction it contains, it\nis requisite to be constantly thinking back,\u2014to make a kind\nof recapitulation of what we have done, of our impressions and\nsensations, to compare our former with our present judgments\u2014what\nwe set before us and struggle to achieve, with the actual result and\nsatisfaction we have obtained. To do this is to get a repetition of\nthe private lessons of experience,\u2014lessons which are given to every\none.\n\nExperience of the world may be looked upon as a kind of text, to which\nreflection and knowledge form the commentary. Where there is great\ndeal of reflection and intellectual knowledge, and very little\nexperience, the result is like those books which have on each page two\nlines of text to forty lines of commentary. A great deal of experience\nwith little reflection and scant knowledge, gives us books like those\nof the editio Bipontina where there are no notes and much that is\nunintelligible.\n\nThe advice here given is on a par with a rule recommended by\nPythagoras,\u2014to review, every night before going to sleep, what we\nhave done during the day. To live at random, in the hurly-burly of\nbusiness or pleasure, without ever reflecting upon the past,\u2014to go\non, as it were, pulling cotton off the reel of life,\u2014is to have no\nclear idea of what we are about; and a man who lives in this state\nwill have chaos in his emotions and certain confusion in his thoughts;\nas is soon manifest by the abrupt and fragmentary character of his\nconversation, which becomes a kind of mincemeat. A man will be all the\nmore exposed to this fate in proportion as he lives a restless life\nin the world, amid a crowd of various impressions and with a\ncorrespondingly small amount of activity on the part of his own mind.\n\nAnd in this connection it will be in place to observe that, when\nevents and circumstances which have influenced us pass away in the\ncourse of time, we are unable to bring back and renew the particular\nmood or state of feeling which they aroused in us: but we can remember\nwhat we were led to say and do in regard to them; and thus form, as it\nwere, the result, expression and measure of those events. We should,\ntherefore, be careful to preserve the memory of our thoughts at\nimportant points in our life; and herein lies the great advantage of\nkeeping a journal.\n\nSECTION 9\n\nTo be self-sufficient, to be all in all to oneself, to\nwant for nothing, to be able to say omnia mea mecum porto\u2014that is\nassuredly the chief qualification for happiness. Hence Aristotle's\nremark, [Greek: hae eudaimonia ton autarchon esti]\u2014to be happy\nmeans to be self-sufficient\u2014cannot be too often repeated. It is,\nat bottom, the same thought as is present in the very well-turned\nsentence from Chamfort:\n\nLe bonheur n'est pas chose aisee: il est tres difficile de le trouver\nen nous, et impossible de le trouver ailleurs.\n\nFor while a man cannot reckon with certainty upon anyone but himself,\nthe burdens and disadvantages, the dangers and annoyances, which arise\nfrom having to do with others, are not only countless but unavoidable.\n\nThere is no more mistaken path to happiness than worldliness, revelry,\nhigh life: for the whole object of it is to transform our miserable\nexistence into a succession of joys, delights and pleasures,\u2014a\nprocess which cannot fail to result in disappointment and delusion;\non a par, in this respect, with its obligato accompaniment, the\ninterchange of lies.\n\nAll society necessarily involves, as the first condition of its\nexistence, mutual accommodation and restraint upon the part of its\nmembers. This means that the larger it is, the more insipid will be\nits tone. A man can be himself only so long as he is alone; and if\nhe does not love solitude, he will not love freedom; for it is only\nwhen he is alone that he is really free. Constraint is always present\nin society, like a companion of whom there is no riddance; and in\nproportion to the greatness of a man's individuality, it will be hard\nfor him to bear the sacrifices which all intercourse with others\ndemands, Solitude will be welcomed or endured or avoided, according as\na man's personal value is large or small,\u2014the wretch feeling, when\nhe is alone, the whole burden of his misery; the great intellect\ndelighting in its greatness; and everyone, in short, being just what\nhe is.\n\nFurther, if a man stands high in Nature's lists, it is natural and\ninevitable that he should feel solitary. It will be an advantage to\nhim if his surroundings do not interfere with this feeling; for if he\nhas to see a great deal of other people who are not of like character\nwith himself, they will exercise a disturbing influence upon him,\nadverse to his peace of mind; they will rob him, in fact, of himself,\nand give him nothing to compensate for the loss.\n\nBut while Nature sets very wide differences between man and man in\nrespect both of morality and of intellect, society disregards and\neffaces them; or, rather, it sets up artificial differences in\ntheir stead,\u2014gradations of rank and position, which are very often\ndiametrically opposed to those which Nature establishes. The result of\nthis arrangement is to elevate those whom Nature has placed low,\nand to depress the few who stand high. These latter, then, usually\nwithdraw from society, where, as soon as it is at all numerous,\nvulgarity reigns supreme.\n\nWhat offends a great intellect in society is the equality of rights,\nleading to equality of pretensions, which everyone enjoys; while at\nthe same time, inequality of capacity means a corresponding disparity\nof social power. So-called good society recognizes every kind of\nclaim but that of intellect, which is a contraband article; and people\nare expected to exhibit an unlimited amount of patience towards every\nform of folly and stupidity, perversity and dullness; whilst personal\nmerit has to beg pardon, as it were, for being present, or else\nconceal itself altogether. Intellectual superiority offends by its\nvery existence, without any desire to do so.\n\nThe worst of what is called good society is not only that it offers us\nthe companionship of people who are unable to win either our praise or\nour affection, but that it does not allow of our being that which we\nnaturally are; it compels us, for the sake of harmony, to shrivel up,\nor even alter our shape altogether. Intellectual conversation, whether\ngrave or humorous, is only fit for intellectual society; it is\ndownright abhorrent to ordinary people, to please whom it is\nabsolutely necessary to be commonplace and dull. This demands an act\nof severe self-denial; we have to forfeit three-fourths of ourselves\nin order to become like other people. No doubt their company may be\nset down against our loss in this respect; but the more a man is\nworth, the more he will find that what he gains does not cover what he\nloses, and that the balance is on the debit side of the account; for\nthe people with whom he deals are generally bankrupt,\u2014that is to say,\nthere is nothing to be got from their society which can compensate\neither for its boredom, annoyance and disagreeableness, or for the\nself-denial which it renders necessary. Accordingly, most society is\nso constituted as to offer a good profit to anyone who will exchange\nit for solitude.\n\nNor is this all. By way of providing a substitute for real\u2014I mean\nintellectual\u2014superiority, which is seldom to be met with, and\nintolerable when it is found, society has capriciously adopted a false\nkind of superiority, conventional in its character, and resting upon\narbitrary principles,\u2014a tradition, as it were, handed down in the\nhigher circles, and, like a password, subject to alteration; I refer\nto bon-ton fashion. Whenever this kind of superiority comes into\ncollision with the real kind, its weakness is manifest. Moreover, the\npresence of good tone means the absence of good sense.\n\nNo man can be in perfect accord with any one but himself\u2014not even\nwith a friend or the partner of his life; differences of individuality\nand temperament are always bringing in some degree of discord, though\nit may be a very slight one. That genuine, profound peace of mind,\nthat perfect tranquillity of soul, which, next to health, is the\nhighest blessing the earth can give, is to be attained only in\nsolitude, and, as a permanent mood, only in complete retirement; and\nthen, if there is anything great and rich in the man's own self, his\nway of life is the happiest that may be found in this wretched world.\n\nLet me speak plainly. However close the bond of friendship, love,\nmarriage\u2014a man, ultimately, looks to himself, to his own welfare\nalone; at most, to his child's too. The less necessity there is for\nyou to come into contact with mankind in general, in the relations\nwhether of business or of personal intimacy, the better off you are.\nLoneliness and solitude have their evils, it is true; but if you\ncannot feel them all at once, you can at least see where they lie; on\nthe other hand, society is insidious in this respect; as in offering\nyou what appears to be the pastime of pleasing social intercourse, it\nworks great and often irreparable mischief. The young should early be\ntrained to bear being left alone; for it is a source of happiness and\npeace of mind.\n\nIt follows from this that a man is best off if he be thrown upon his own resources and can be all in all to himself; and Cicero goes so far as to say that a man who is in this condition cannot fail to be very happy\u2014nemo potest non beatissimus esse qui est totus aptus ex sese, quique in se uno ponit omnia. The more a man has in himself, the less others can be to him. The feeling of self-sufficiency! it is that which restrains those whose personal value is in itself great riches, from such considerable sacrifices as are demanded by intercourse with the world, let alone, then, from actually practicing self-denial by going out of their way to seek it. Ordinary people are sociable and complaisant just from the very opposite feeling;\u2014to bear others' company is easier for them than to bear their own. Moreover, respect is not paid in this world to that which has real merit; it is reserved for that which has none. So retirement is at once a proof and a result\nof being distinguished by the possession of meritorious qualities. It\nwill therefore show real wisdom on the part of any one who is worth\nanything in himself, to limit his requirements as may be necessary, in\norder to preserve or extend his freedom, and,\u2014since a man must come\ninto some relations with his fellow-men\u2014to admit them to his intimacy\nas little as possible.\n\nI have said that people are rendered sociable by their ability to\nendure solitude, that is to say, their own society. They become\nsick of themselves. It is this vacuity of soul which drives them to\nintercourse with others,\u2014to travels in foreign countries. Their mind\nis wanting in elasticity; it has no movement of its own, and so they\ntry to give it some,\u2014by drink, for instance. How much drunkenness\nis due to this cause alone! They are always looking for some form of\nexcitement, of the strongest kind they can bear\u2014the excitement of\nbeing with people of like nature with themselves; and if they fail\nin this, their mind sinks by its own weight, and they fall into a\ngrievous lethargy. Such people, it may be said, possess only a\nsmall fraction of humanity in themselves; and it requires a great many\nof them put together to make up a fair amount of it,\u2014to attain any\ndegree of consciousness as men. A man, in the full sense of the\nword,\u2014a man par excellence\u2014does not represent a fraction, but a\nwhole number: he is complete in himself.\n\nOrdinary society is, in this respect, very like the kind of music to\nbe obtained from an orchestra composed of Russian horns. Each horn has\nonly one note; and the music is produced by each note coming in just\nat the right moment. In the monotonous sound of a single horn, you\nhave a precise illustration of the effect of most people's minds. How\noften there seems to be only one thought there! and no room for any\nother. It is easy to see why people are so bored; and also why they\nare sociable, why they like to go about in crowds\u2014why mankind is so\ngregarious. It is the monotony of his own nature that makes a man\nfind solitude intolerable. Omnis stultitia laborat fastidio sui:\nfolly is truly its own burden. Put a great many men together, and you\nmay get some result\u2014some music from your horns!\n\nA man of intellect is like an artist who gives a concert without any\nhelp from anyone else, playing on a single instrument\u2014a piano, say,\nwhich is a little orchestra in itself. Such a man is a little world in\nhimself; and the effect produced by various instruments together, he\nproduces single-handed, in the unity of his own consciousness. Like\nthe piano, he has no place in a symphony: he is a soloist and performs\nby himself,\u2014in solitude, it may be; or, if in company with other\ninstruments, only as principal; or for setting the tone, as in\nsinging. However, those who are fond of society from time to time\nmay profit by this simile, and lay it down as a general rule that\ndeficiency of quality in those we meet may be to some extent\ncompensated by an increase in quantity. One man's company may be quite\nenough, if he is clever; but where you have only ordinary people to\ndeal with, it is advisable to have a great many of them, so that\nsome advantage may accrue by letting them all work together,--on the\nanalogy of the horns; and may Heaven grant you patience for your task!\n\nThat mental vacuity and barrenness of soul to which I have alluded, is\nresponsible for another misfortune. When men of the better class form\na society for promoting some noble or ideal aim, the result almost\nalways is that the innumerable mob of humanity comes crowding in too,\nas it always does everywhere, like vermin\u2014their object being to try\nand get rid of boredom, or some other defect of their nature; and\nanything that will effect that, they seize upon at once, without the\nslightest discrimination. Some of them will slip into that society,\nor push themselves in, and then either soon destroy it altogether, or\nalter it so much that in the end it comes to have a purpose the exact\nopposite of that which it had at first.\n\nThis is not the only point of view from which the social impulse may\nbe regarded. On cold days people manage to get some warmth by crowding\ntogether; and you can warm your mind in the same way\u2014by bringing\nit into contact with others. But a man who has a great deal of\nintellectual warmth in himself will stand in no need of such\nresources. I have written a little fable illustrating this: it may be\nfound elsewhere. As a general rule, it may be said that a man's\nsociability stands very nearly in inverse ratio to his intellectual\nvalue: to say that \"so and so\" is very unsociable, is almost\ntantamount to saying that he is a man of great capacity.\n\nSolitude is doubly advantageous to such a man. Firstly, it allows\nhim to be with himself, and, secondly, it prevents him being with\nothers\u2014an advantage of great moment; for how much constraint,\nannoyance, and even danger there is in all intercourse with the world.\nTout notre mal, says La Bruyere, vient de ne pouvoir etre seul. It\nis really a very risky, nay, a fatal thing, to be sociable; because\nit means contact with natures, the great majority of which are bad\nmorally, and dull or perverse, intellectually. To be unsociable is not\nto care about such people; and to have enough in oneself to dispense\nwith the necessity of their company is a great piece of good fortune;\nbecause almost all our sufferings spring from having to do with other\npeople; and that destroys the peace of mind, which, as I have said,\ncomes next after health in the elements of happiness. Peace of mind\nis impossible without a considerable amount of solitude. The Cynics\nrenounced all private property in order to attain the bliss of having\nnothing to trouble them; and to renounce society with the same object\nis the wisest thing a man can do. Bernardin de Saint Pierre has the\nvery excellent and pertinent remark that to be sparing in regard to food is a means of health; in regard to society, a means of tranquillity\u2014la diete des ailmens nous rend la sante du corps, et celle des hommes la tranquillite de l'ame. To be soon on friendly, or even affectionate, terms with solitude is like winning a gold mine; but this is not something which everybody can do. The prime reason for social intercourse is mutual need; and as soon as that is satisfied, boredom drives people together once more. If it were not for these two reasons, a man would probably elect to remain alone; if only because solitude is the sole condition of life which gives full play to that feeling of exclusive importance which every man has in his own eyes,\u2014as if he were the only person in the world! a feeling which, in the throng and press of real life, soon shrivels up to nothing, getting, at every step, a painful dementi. From this point of view it may be said that solitude is the original and natural state of man, where, like another Adam, he is as happy as his nature will allow.\n\nBut still, had Adam no father or mother? There is another sense in\nwhich solitude is not the natural state; for, at his entrance into the\nworld, a man finds himself with parents, brothers, sisters, that is to\nsay, in society, and not alone. Accordingly it cannot be said that the\nlove of solitude is an original characteristic of human nature; it is\nrather the result of experience and reflection, and these in their\nturn depend upon the development of intellectual power, and increase\nwith the years.\n\nSpeaking generally, sociability stands in inverse ratio with age. A\nlittle child raises a piteous cry of fright if it is left alone for\nonly a few minutes; and later on, to be shut up by itself is a great\npunishment. Young people soon get on very friendly terms with one\nanother; it is only the few among them of any nobility of mind who are\nglad now and then to be alone;\u2014but to spend the whole day thus would\nbe disagreeable. A grown-up man can easily do it; it is little trouble\nto him to be much alone, and it becomes less and less trouble as he\nadvances in years. An old man who has outlived all his friends, and is\neither indifferent or dead to the pleasures of life, is in his proper\nelement in solitude; and in individual cases the special tendency\nto retirement and seclusion will always be in direct proportion to\nintellectual capacity.\n\nFor this tendency is not, as I have said, a purely natural one; it\ndoes not come into existence as a direct need of human nature; it is\nrather the effect of the experience we go through, the product\nof reflection upon what our needs really are; proceeding, more\nespecially, from the insight we attain into the wretched stuff of\nwhich most people are made, whether you look at their morals or their\nintellects. The worst of it all is that, in the individual, moral and\nintellectual shortcomings are closely connected and play into each\nother's hands, so that all manner of disagreeable results are\nobtained, which make intercourse with most people not only unpleasant\nbut intolerable. Hence, though the world contains many things which\nare thoroughly bad, the worst thing in it is society. Even Voltaire,\nthat sociable Frenchman, was obliged to admit that there are\neverywhere crowds of people not worth talking to: la terre est\ncouverte de gens qui ne meritent pas qu'on leur parle. And Petrarch\ngives a similar reason for wishing to be alone\u2014that tender spirit! so\nstrong and constant in his love of seclusion. The streams, the plains\nand woods know well, he says, how he has tried to escape the perverse\nand stupid people who have missed the way to heaven:\u2014\n\nCercato ho sempre solitaria vita\n(Le rive il sanno, e le campagne e i boschi)\nPer fuggir quest' ingegni storti e loschi\nChe la strada del ciel' hanno smarrita.\n\nHe pursues the same strain in that delightful book of his, DeVita\nSolitaria, which seems to have given Zimmerman the idea of his\ncelebrated work on Solitude. It is the secondary and indirect\ncharacter of the love of seclusion to which Chamfort alludes in the\nfollowing passage, couched in his sarcastic vein: On dit quelquefois\nd'un homme qui vit seul, il n'aime pas la societe. C'est souvent\ncomme si on disait d'un homme qu'il n'aime pas la promenade, sous le\npretexte qu'il ne se promene pas volontiers le soir dans le foret de\nBondy.\n\nYou will find a similar sentiment expressed by the Persian poet Sadi, in his Garden of Roses. Since that time, he says, we have taken leave of society, preferring the path of seclusion; for there is safety in solitude. Angelus Silesius, a very gentle and Christian writer, confesses to the same feeling, in his own mythical language. Herod, he says, is the common enemy; and when, as with Joseph, God warns us of danger, we fly from the world to solitude, from Bethlehem to Egypt; or else suffering and death await us!\u2014\n\nHerodes ist ein Feind; der Joseph der Verstand,\nDem machte Gott die Gefahr im Traum (in Geist) bekannt;\nDie Welt ist Bethlehem, Aegypten Einsamkeit,\nFleuch, meine Seele! fleuch, sonst stirbest du vor Leid.\n\nGiordano Bruno also declares himself a friend of seclusion. Tanti\nuomini, he says, che in terra hanno voluto gustare vita\nceleste, dissero con una voce, \"ecce elongavi fugiens et mansi in\nsolitudine\"\u2014those who in this world have desired a foretaste of the\ndivine life, have always proclaimed with one voice:\n\nLo! then would I wander far off;\nI would lodge in the wilderness.\n\nAnd in the work from which I have already quoted, Sadi says of himself: In disgust with my friends at Damascus, I withdrew into the desert about Jerusalem, to seek the society of the beasts of the field. In short, the same thing has been said by all whom Prometheus has formed out of better clay. What pleasure could they find in the company of people with whom their only common ground is just what is lowest and least noble in their own nature\u2014the part of them that is commonplace, trivial and vulgar? What do they want with people who cannot rise to a higher level, and for whom nothing remains but to drag others down to theirs? for this is what they aim at. It is an aristocratic feeling that is at the bottom of this propensity to seclusion and solitude.\n\nRascals are always sociable\u2014more's the pity! and the chief sign that\na man has any nobility in his character is the little pleasure he\ntakes in others' company. He prefers solitude more and more, and, in\ncourse of time, comes to see that, with few exceptions, the world\noffers no choice beyond solitude on one side and vulgarity on the\nother. This may sound a hard thing to say; but even Angelus Silesius,\nwith all his Christian feelings of gentleness and love, was obliged to\nadmit the truth of it. However painful solitude may be, he says, be\ncareful not to be vulgar; for then you may find a desert everywhere:\u2014\n\nDie Einsamkeit ist noth: doch sei nur nicht gemein,\nSo kannst du ueberall in einer Wueste sein.\n\nIt is natural for great minds\u2014the true teachers of humanity\u2014to care\nlittle about the constant company of others; just as little as the\nschoolmaster cares for joining in the gambols of the noisy crowd of\nboys which surround him. The mission of these great minds is to guide\nmankind over the sea of error to the haven of truth\u2014to draw it forth\nfrom the dark abysses of a barbarous vulgarity up into the light of\nculture and refinement. Men of great intellect live in the world\nwithout really belonging to it; and so, from their earliest years,\nthey feel that there is a perceptible difference between them and\nother people. But it is only gradually, with the lapse of years,\nthat they come to a clear understanding of their position. Their\nintellectual isolation is then reinforced by actual seclusion in their\nmanner of life; they let no one approach who is not in some degree\nemancipated from the prevailing vulgarity.\n\nFrom what has been said it is obvious that the love of solitude is\nnot a direct, original impulse in human nature, but rather something\nsecondary and of gradual growth. It is the more distinguishing feature\nof nobler minds, developed not without some conquest of natural\ndesires, and now and then in actual opposition to the promptings of\nMephistopheles\u2014bidding you exchange a morose and soul-destroying\nsolitude for life amongst men, for society; even the worst, he says,\nwill give a sense of human fellowship:\u2014\n\nHoer' auf mit deinem Gram zu spielen,\nDer, wie ein Geier, dir am Leben frisst:\nDie schlechteste Gesellschaft laesst dich fuehlen\nDass du ein Mensch mit Menschen bist.\n\nTo be alone is the fate of all great minds\u2014a fate deplored at times,\nbut still always chosen as the less grievous of two evils. As\nthe years increase, it always becomes easier to say, Dare to be\nwise\u2014sapere aude. And after sixty, the inclination to be alone\ngrows into a kind of real, natural instinct; for at that age\neverything combines in favor of it. The strongest impulse\u2014the love of\nwoman's society\u2014has little or no effect; it is the sexless condition\nof old age which lays the foundation of a certain self-sufficiency,\nand that gradually absorbs all desire for others' company. A thousand\nillusions and follies are overcome; the active years of life are\nin most cases gone; a man has no more expectations or plans or\nintentions. The generation to which he belonged has passed away, and a\nnew race has sprung up which looks upon him as essentially outside its\nsphere of activity. And then the years pass more quickly as we become\nolder, and we want to devote our remaining time to the intellectual\nrather than to the practical side of life. For, provided that the mind\nretains its faculties, the amount of knowledge and experience we have\nacquired, together with the facility we have gained in the use of our\npowers, makes it then more than ever easy and interesting to us to\npursue the study of any subject. A thousand things become clear which\nwere formerly enveloped in obscurity, and results are obtained which\ngive a feeling of difficulties overcome. From long experience of men,\nwe cease to expect much from them; we find that, on the whole, people\ndo not gain by a nearer acquaintance; and that\u2014apart from a few rare\nand fortunate exceptions\u2014we have come across none but defective\nspecimens of human nature which it is advisable to leave in peace.\nWe are no more subject to the ordinary illusions of life; and as, in\nindividual instances, we soon see what a man is made of, we seldom\nfeel any inclination to come into closer relations with him. Finally,\nisolation\u2014our own society\u2014has become a habit, as it were a second\nnature to us, more especially if we have been on friendly terms with\nit from our youth up. The love of solitude which was formerly indulged\nonly at the expense of our desire for society, has now come to be the\nsimple quality of our natural disposition\u2014the element proper to our\nlife, as water to a fish. This is why anyone who possesses a unique\nindividuality\u2014unlike others and therefore necessarily isolated\u2014feels\nthat, as he becomes older, his position is no longer so burdensome as\nwhen he was young.\n\nFor, as a matter of fact, this very genuine privilege of old age is\none which can be enjoyed only if a man is possessed of a certain\namount of intellect; it will be appreciated most of all where there is\nreal mental power; but in some degree by every one. It is only people\nof very barren and vulgar nature who will be just as sociable in their\nold age as they were in their youth. But then they become troublesome\nto a society to which they are no longer suited, and, at most, manage\nto be tolerated; whereas, they were formerly in great request.\n\nThere is another aspect of this inverse proportion between age and\nsociability\u2014the way in which it conduces to education. The younger\nthat people are, the more in every respect they have to learn; and it\nis just in youth that Nature provides a system of mutual education,\nso that mere intercourse with others, at that time of life, carries\ninstruction with it. Human society, from this point of view, resembles\na huge academy of learning, on the Bell and Lancaster system, opposed\nto the system of education by means of books and schools, as something\nartificial and contrary to the institutions of Nature. It is therefore\na very suitable arrangement that, in his young days, a man should be\na very diligent student at the place of learning provided by Nature\nherself.\n\nBut there is nothing in life which has not some drawback\u2014nihil est ab omni parte beatum, as Horace says; or, in the words of an Indian proverb, no lotus without a stalk. Seclusion, which has so many advantages, has also its little annoyances and drawbacks, which are\nsmall, however, in comparison with those of society; hence anyone who\nis worth much in himself will get on better without other people than\nwith them. But amongst the disadvantages of seclusion there is one\nwhich is not so easy to see as the rest. It is this: when people\nremain indoors all day, they become physically very sensitive to\natmospheric changes, so that every little draught is enough to make\nthem ill; so with our temper; a long course of seclusion makes it so\nsensitive that the most trivial incidents, words, or even looks, are\nsufficient to disturb or to vex and offend us\u2014little things which are\nunnoticed by those who live in the turmoil of life.\n\nWhen you find human society disagreeable and feel yourself justified\nin flying to solitude, you can be so constituted as to be unable to\nbear the depression of it for any length of time, which will probably\nbe the case if you are young. Let me advise you, then, to form the\nhabit of taking some of your solitude with you into society, to learn\nto be to some extent alone even though you are in company; not to say\nat once what you think, and, on the other hand, not to attach too\nprecise a meaning to what others say; rather, not to expect much of\nthem, either morally or intellectually, and to strengthen yourself in\nthe feeling of indifference to their opinion, which is the surest way\nof always practicing a praiseworthy toleration. If you do that, you\nwill not live so much with other people, though you may appear to move\namongst them: your relation to them will be of a purely objective\ncharacter. This precaution will keep you from too close contact with\nsociety, and therefore secure you against being contaminated or even\noutraged by it. Society is in this respect like a fire\u2014the wise man warming himself at a proper distance from it; not coming too\nclose, like the fool, who, on getting scorched, runs away and shivers\nin solitude, loud in his complaint that the fire burns.\n\nSECTION 10\n\nEnvy is natural to man; and still, it is at once a vice and a source of misery. We should treat it as the enemy of our happiness, and stifle it like an evil thought. This is the advice given by Seneca; as he well puts it, we shall be pleased with what we have, if we avoid the self-torture of comparing our own lot with some other and happier one\u2014nostra nos sine comparatione delectent; nunquam erit felix quem torquebit felicior. And again, quum adspexeris quot te antecedent, cogita quot sequantur\u2014if a great many people appear to be better off than yourself, think how many there are in a worse position. It is a fact that if real calamity comes upon us, the most effective consolation\u2014though it springs from the same source as envy\u2014is just the thought of greater misfortunes than ours; and the next best is the society of those who are in the same luck as we\u2014the partners of our sorrows.\n\nSo much for the envy which we may feel towards others. As regards the\nenvy which we may excite in them, it should always be remembered that\nno form of hatred is so implacable as the hatred that comes from envy;\nand therefore we should always carefully refrain from doing anything\nto rouse it; nay, as with many another form of vice, it is better\naltogether to renounce any pleasure there may be in it, because of the\nserious nature of its consequences.\n\nAristocracies are of three kinds: (1) of birth and rank; (2) of wealth; and (3) of intellect. The last is really the most distinguished of the three, and its claim to occupy the first position comes to be recognized, if it is only allowed time to work. So eminent a king as Frederick the Great admitted it\u2014les ames privilegiees rangent a l'egal des souverains, as he said to his chamberlain, when the latter expressed his surprise that Voltaire should have a seat at the table reserved for kings and princes, whilst ministers and generals were relegated to the chamberlain's.\n\nEvery one of these aristocracies is surrounded by a host of envious persons. If you belong to one of them, they will be secretly embittered against you; and unless they are restrained by fear, they\nwill always be anxious to let you understand that you are no better than they. It is by their anxiety to let you know this, that they betray how greatly they are conscious that the opposite is the truth.\n\nThe line of conduct to be pursued if you are exposed to envy, is to\nkeep the envious persons at a distance, and, as far as possible, avoid\nall contact with them, so that there may be a wide gulf fixed between\nyou and them; if this cannot be done, to bear their attacks with the\ngreatest composure. In the latter case, the very thing that provokes\nthe attack will also neutralize it. This is what appears to be\ngenerally done.\n\nThe members of one of these aristocracies usually get on very well\nwith those of another, and there is no call for envy between them,\nbecause their several privileges effect an equipoise.\n\nSECTION 11\n\nGive mature and repeated consideration to any plan before you proceed to carry it out; and even after you have thoroughly turned it over in your mind, make some concession to the incompetency of human judgment; for it may always happen that circumstances which cannot be investigated or foreseen, will come in and upset the whole of your calculation. This is a reflection that will always influence the negative side of the balance\u2014a kind of warning to refrain from unnecessary action in matters of importance\u2014quieta non movere. But having once made up your mind and begun your work, you must let it run its course and abide the result\u2014not worry yourself by fresh reflections on what is already accomplished, or by a renewal of your scruples on the score of possible danger: free your mind from the subject altogether, and refuse to go into it again, secure in the thought that you gave it mature attention at the proper time. This is the same advice as is given by an Italian proverb\u2014legala bene e poi lascia la andare\u2014which Goethe has translated thus: See well to your girths, and then ride on boldly.\n\nAnd if, notwithstanding that, you fail, it is because human affairs\nare the sport of chance and error. Socrates, the wisest of men, needed\nthe warning voice of his good genius, or [Greek: daimonion], to enable\nhim to do what was right in regard to his own personal affairs, or at\nany rate, to avoid mistakes; which argues that the human intellect is\nincompetent for the purpose. There is a saying\u2014which is reported to\nhave originated with one of the Popes\u2014that when misfortune happens to\nus, the blame of it, at least in some degree, attaches to ourselves.\nIf this is not true absolutely and in every instance, it is certainly\ntrue in the great majority of cases. It even looks as if this truth\nhad a great deal to do with the effort people make as far as possible\nto conceal their misfortunes, and to put the best face they can upon\nthem, for fear lest their misfortunes may show how much they are to\nblame.\n\nSECTION 12\n\nIn the case of a misfortune which has already happened and therefore\ncannot be altered, you should not allow yourself to think that it\nmight have been otherwise; still less, that it might have been avoided\nby such and such means; for reflections of this kind will only add\nto your distress and make it intolerable, so that you will become a\ntormentor to yourself\u2014[Greek: heautontimoroumeaeos]. It is better to\nfollow the example of King David; who, as long as his son lay on the\nbed of sickness, assailed Jehovah with unceasing supplications and\nentreaties for his recovery; but when he was dead, snapped his fingers\nand thought no more of it. If you are not light-hearted enough for\nthat, you can take refuge in fatalism, and have the great truth\nrevealed to you that everything which happens is the result of\nnecessity, and therefore inevitable.\n\nHowever good this advice may be, it is one-sided and partial. In\nrelieving and quieting us for the moment, it is no doubt effective\nenough; but when our misfortunes have resulted\u2014as is usually the\ncase\u2014from our own carelessness or folly, or, at any rate, partly by\nour own fault, it is a good thing to consider how they might have\nbeen avoided, and to consider it often in spite of its being a tender\nsubject--a salutary form of self-discipline, which will make us wiser\nand better men for the future. If we have made obvious mistakes, we\nshould not try, as we generally do, to gloss them over, or to find\nsomething to excuse or extenuate them; we should admit to ourselves\nthat we have committed faults, and open our eyes wide to all their\nenormity, in order that we may firmly resolve to avoid them in time to\ncome. To be sure, that means a great deal of self-inflicted pain, in\nthe shape of discontent, but it should be remembered that to spare\nthe rod is to spoil the child\u2014[Greek: ho mae dareis anthropos ou\npaideuetai].\n\nSECTION 13\n\nIn all matters affecting our weal or woe, we should be\ncareful not to let our imagination run away with us, and build no\ncastles in the air. In the first place, they are expensive to build,\nbecause we have to pull them down again immediately, and that is\na source of grief. We should be still more on our guard against\ndistressing our hearts by depicting possible misfortunes. If these\nwere misfortunes of a purely imaginary kind, or very remote and\nunlikely, we should at once see, on awaking from our dream, that the\nwhole thing was mere illusion; we should rejoice all the more in\na reality better than our dreams, or at most, be warned against\nmisfortunes which, though very remote, were still possible. These,\nhowever, are not the sort of playthings in which imagination delights;\nit is only in idle hours that we build castles in the air, and they\nare always of a pleasing description. The matter which goes to form\ngloomy dreams are mischances which to some extent really threaten us,\nthough it be from some distance; imagination makes us look larger and\nnearer and more terrible than they are in reality. This is a kind of\ndream which cannot be so readily shaken off on awaking as a pleasant\none; for a pleasant dream is soon dispelled by reality, leaving, at\nmost, a feeble hope lying in the lap of possibility. Once we have\nabandoned ourselves to a fit of the blues, visions are conjured up\nwhich do not so easily vanish again; for it is always just possible\nthat the visions may be realized. But we are not always able to\nestimate the exact degree of possibility: possibility may easily\npass into probability; and thus we deliver ourselves up to torture.\nTherefore we should be careful not to be over-anxious on any\nmatter affecting our weal or our woe, not to carry our anxiety to\nunreasonable or injudicious limits; but coolly and dispassionately to\ndeliberate upon the matter, as though it were an abstract question\nwhich did not touch us in particular. We should give no play to\nimagination here; for imagination is not judgment\u2014it only conjures up\nvisions, inducing an unprofitable and often very painful mood.\n\nThe rule on which I am here insisting should be most carefully\nobserved towards evening. For as darkness makes us timid and apt to\nsee terrifying shapes everywhere, there is something similar in the\neffect of indistinct thought; and uncertainty always brings with it a\nsense of danger. Hence, towards evening, when our powers of thought\nand judgment are relaxed,\u2014at the hour, as it were, of subjective\ndarkness,\u2014the intellect becomes tired, easily confused, and unable\nto get at the bottom of things; and if, in that state, we meditate\non matters of personal interest to ourselves, they soon assume a\ndangerous and terrifying aspect. This is mostly the case at night,\nwhen we are in bed; for then the mind is fully relaxed, and the power\nof judgment quite unequal to its duties; but imagination is still\nawake. Night gives a black look to everything, whatever it may be.\nThis is why our thoughts, just before we go to sleep, or as we lie\nawake through the hours of the night, are usually such confusions and\nperversions of facts as dreams themselves; and when our thoughts at\nthat time are concentrated upon our own concerns, they are generally\nas black and monstrous as possible. In the morning all such nightmares\nvanish like dreams: as the Spanish proverb has it, noche tinta, bianco el dia\u2014the night is colored, the day is white. But even towards nightfall, as soon as the candles are lit, the mind, like the eye, no longer sees things so clearly as by day: it is a time unsuited to serious meditation, especially on unpleasant subjects. The morning is the proper time for that--as indeed for all efforts without exception, whether mental or bodily. For the morning is the youth of the day, when everything is bright, fresh, and easy of attainment; we feel strong then, and all our faculties are completely at our disposal. Do not shorten the morning by getting up late, or waste it\nin unworthy occupations or in talk; look upon it as the quintessence\nof life, as to a certain extent sacred. Evening is like old age: we\nare languid, talkative, silly. Each day is a little life: every waking\nand rising a little birth, every fresh morning a little youth, every\ngoing to rest and sleep a little death.\n\nBut condition of health, sleep, nourishment, temperature, weather,\nsurroundings, and much else that is purely external, have, in general,\nan important influence upon our mood and therefore upon our thoughts.\nHence both our view of any matter and our capacity for any work are\nvery much subject to time and place. So it is best to profit by a good\nmood\u2014for how seldom it comes!\u2014\n\nNehmt die gute Stimmung wahr,\nDenn sie kommt so selten.\n\nWe are not always able to form new ideas about; our surroundings, or\nto command original thoughts: they come if they will, and when they\nwill. And so, too, we cannot always succeed in completely considering\nsome personal matter at the precise time at which we have determined\nbeforehand to consider it, and just when we set ourselves to do\nso. For the peculiar train of thought which is favorable to it may\nsuddenly become active without any special call being made upon\nit, and we may then follow it up with keen interest. In this way\nreflection, too, chooses its own time.\n\nThis reining-in of the imagination which I am recommending, will also\nforbid us to summon up the memory of the past misfortune, to paint\na dark picture of the injustice or harm that has been done us, the\nlosses we have sustained, the insults, slights and annoyances to which\nwe have been exposed: for to do that is to rouse into fresh life all\nthose hateful passions long laid asleep\u2014the anger and resentment\nwhich disturb and pollute our nature. In an excellent parable,\nProclus, the Neoplatonist, points out how in every town the mob dwells\nside by side with those who are rich and distinguished: so, too, in\nevery man, be he never so noble and dignified, there is, in the depth\nof his nature, a mob of low and vulgar desires which constitute him an\nanimal. It will not do to let this mob revolt or even so much as peep\nforth from its hiding-place; it is hideous of mien, and its rebel\nleaders are those flights of imagination which I have been describing.\nThe smallest annoyance, whether it comes from our fellow-men or from\nthe things around us, may swell up into a monster of dreadful aspect,\nputting us at our wits' end--and all because we go on brooding over\nour troubles and painting them in the most glaring colors and on the\nlargest scale. It is much better to take a very calm and prosaic view\nof what is disagreeable; for that is the easiest way of bearing it.\n\nIf you hold small objects close to your eyes, you limit your field of\nvision and shut out the world. And, in the same way, the people or the\nthings which stand nearest, even though they are of the very smallest\nconsequence, are apt to claim an amount of attention much beyond\ntheir due, occupying us disagreeably, and leaving no room for serious\nthoughts and affairs of importance. We ought to work against this\ntendency.\n\nSECTION 14\n\nThe sight of things which do not belong to us is very apt\nto raise the thought: Ah, if that were only mine! making us sensible\nof our privation. Instead of that we should do better by more\nfrequently putting to ourselves the opposite case: Ah, if that were not mine. What I mean is that we should sometimes try to look upon our possessions in the light in which they would appear if we had lost them; whatever they may be, property, health, friends, a wife or child\nor someone else we love, our horse or our dog\u2014it is usually only when\nwe have lost them that we begin to find out their value. But if we\ncome to look at things in the way I recommend, we shall be doubly the\ngainers; we shall at once get more pleasure out of them than we did\nbefore, and we shall do everything in our power to prevent the loss\nof them; for instance, by not risking our property, or angering our\nfriends, or exposing our wives to temptation, or being careless about\nour children's health, and so on.\n\nWe often try to banish the gloom and despondency of the present by\nspeculating upon our chances of success in the future; a process which\nleads us to invent a great many chimerical hopes. Every one of them\ncontains the germ of illusion, and disappointment is inevitable when\nour hopes are shattered by the hard facts of life.\n\nIt is less hurtful to take the chances of misfortune as a theme for\nspeculation; because, in doing so, we provide ourselves at once with\nmeasures of precaution against it, and a pleasant surprise when it\nfails to make its appearance. Is it not a fact that we always feel a\nmarked improvement in our spirits when we begin to get over a period\nof anxiety? I may go further and say that there is some use in\noccasionally looking upon terrible misfortunes\u2014such as might happen\nto us\u2014as though they had actually happened, for then the trivial\nreverses which subsequently come in reality, are much easier to\nbear. It is a source of consolation to look back upon those great\nmisfortunes which never happened. But in following out this rule,\ncare must be taken not to neglect what I have said in the preceding\nsection.\n\nSECTION 15\n\nThe things which engage our attention\u2014whether they are\nmatters of business or ordinary events\u2014are of such diverse kinds,\nthat, if taken quite separately and in no fixed order or relation,\nthey present a medley of the most glaring contrasts, with nothing in\ncommon, except that they one and all affect us in particular. There\nmust be a corresponding abruptness in the thoughts and anxieties which\nthese various matters arouse in us, if our thoughts are to be in\nkeeping with their various subjects. Therefore, in setting about\nanything, the first step is to withdraw our attention from everything\nelse: this will enable us to attend to each matter at its own time,\nand to enjoy or put up with it, quite apart from any thought of our\nremaining interests. Our thoughts must be arranged, as it were, in\nlittle drawers, so that we may open one without disturbing any of the\nothers.\n\nIn this way we can keep the heavy burden of anxiety from weighing upon\nus so much as to spoil the little pleasures of the present, or from\nrobbing us of our rest; otherwise the consideration of one matter will\ninterfere with every other, and attention to some important business\nmay lead us to neglect many affairs which happen to be of less moment.\nIt is most important for everyone who is capable of higher and nobler\nthoughts to keep their mind from being so completely engrossed with\nprivate affairs and vulgar troubles as to let them take up all his\nattention and crowd out worthier matter; for that is, in a very real\nsense, to lose sight of the true end of life\u2014propter vitam vivendi perdere causas.\n\nOf course for this\u2014as for so much else\u2014self-control is necessary;\nwithout it, we cannot manage ourselves in the way I have described.\nAnd self-control may not appear so very difficult, if we consider that\nevery man has to submit to a great deal of very severe control on the\npart of his surroundings, and that without it no form of existence\nis possible. Further, a little self-control at the right moment may\nprevent much subsequent compulsion at the hands of others; just as a\nvery small section of a circle close to the centre may correspond to\na part near the circumference a hundred times as large. Nothing\nwill protect us from external compulsion so much as the control of\nourselves; and, as Seneca says, to submit yourself to reason is\nthe way to make everything else submit to you\u2014si tibi vis omnia subjicere, te subjice rationi. Self-control, too, is something which we have in our own power; and if the worst comes to the worst, and it touches us in a very sensitive part, we can always relax its severity.\nBut other people will pay no regard to our feelings, if they have\nto use compulsion, and we shall be treated without pity or mercy.\nTherefore it will be prudent to anticipate compulsion by self-control.\n\nSECTION 16\n\nWe must set limits to our wishes, curb our desires,\nmoderate our anger, always remembering that an individual can attain\nonly an infinitesimal share in anything that is worth having; and\nthat, on the other hand, everyone must incur many of the ills of life;\nin a word, we must bear and forbear\u2014abstinere et sustinere; and\nif we fail to observe this rule, no position of wealth or power will\nprevent us from feeling wretched. This is what Horace means when he\nrecommends us to study carefully and inquire diligently what will\nbest promote a tranquil life\u2014not to be always agitated by fruitless\ndesires and fears and hopes for things, which, after all, are not\nworth very much:\u2014\n\nInter cuncta leges et percontabere doctos\nQua ratione queas traducere leniter aevum;\nNe te semper inops agitet vexetque cupido,\nNe pavor, et rerum mediocriter utilium spes.\n\nSECTION 17\n\nLife consists in movement, says Aristotle; and he is\nobviously right. We exist, physically, because our organism is the\nseat of constant motion; and if we are to exist intellectually, it can\nonly be by means of continual occupation\u2014no matter with what so long\nas it is some form of practical or mental activity. You may see that\nthis is so by the way in which people who have no work or nothing to\nthink about, immediately begin to beat the devil's tattoo with their\nknuckles or a stick or anything that comes handy. The truth is, that\nour nature is essentially restless in its character: we very soon\nget tired of having nothing to do; it is intolerable boredom. This\nimpulse to activity should be regulated, and some sort of method\nintroduced into it, which of itself will enhance the satisfaction we\nobtain. Activity!\u2014doing something, if possible creating something, at\nany rate learning something\u2014how fortunate it is that men cannot exist\nwithout that! A man wants to use his strength, to see, if he can, what\neffect it will produce; and he will get the most complete satisfaction\nof this desire if he can make or construct something\u2014be it a book or\na basket. There is a direct pleasure in seeing work grow under one's\nhands day by day, until at last it is finished. This is the pleasure\nattaching to a work of art or a manuscript, or even mere manual labor;\nand, of course, the higher the work, the greater pleasure it will\ngive.\n\nFrom this point of view, those are happiest of all who are conscious\nof the power to produce great works animated by some significant\npurpose: it gives a higher kind of interest\u2014a sort of rare flavor\u2014to\nthe whole of their life, which, by its absence from the life of the\nordinary man, makes it, in comparison, something very insipid. For\nrichly endowed natures, life and the world have a special interest\nbeyond the mere everyday personal interest which so many others share;\nand something higher than that\u2014a formal interest. It is from life and\nthe world that they get the material for their works; and as soon\nas they are freed from the pressure of personal needs, it is to\nthe diligent collection of material that they devote their whole\nexistence. So with their intellect: it is to some extent of a two-fold\ncharacter, and devoted partly to the ordinary affairs of every\nday\u2014those matters of will which are common to them and the rest of\nmankind, and partly to their peculiar work\u2014the pure and objective\ncontemplation of existence. And while, on the stage of the world, most\nmen play their little part and then pass away, the genius lives a\ndouble life, at once an actor and a spectator.\n\nLet everyone, then, do something, according to the measure of his\ncapacities. To have no regular work, no set sphere of activity\u2014what a\nmiserable thing it is! How often long travels undertaken for pleasure\nmake a man downright unhappy; because the absence of anything that can\nbe called occupation forces him, as it were, out of his right element.\nEffort, struggles with difficulties! that is as natural to a man as\ngrubbing in the ground is to a mole. To have all his wants satisfied\nis something intolerable\u2014the feeling of stagnation which comes\nfrom pleasures that last too long. To overcome difficulties is\nto experience the full delight of existence, no matter where the\nobstacles are encountered; whether in the affairs of life, in commerce\nor business; or in mental effort\u2014the spirit of inquiry that tries\nto master its subject. There is always something pleasurable in the\nstruggle and the victory. And if a man has no opportunity to excite\nhimself, he will do what he can to create one, and according to his\nindividual bent, he will hunt or play Cup and Ball: or led on by this\nunsuspected element in his nature, he will pick a quarrel with some\none, or hatch a plot or intrigue, or take to swindling and rascally\ncourses generally\u2014all to put an end to a state of repose which is\nintolerable. As I have remarked, difficilis in otio quies\u2014it is\ndifficult to keep quiet if you have nothing to do.\n\nSECTION 18\n\nA man should avoid being led on by the phantoms of his\nimagination. This is not the same thing as to submit to the guidance\nof ideas clearly thought out: and yet these are rules of life which\nmost people pervert. If you examine closely into the circumstances\nwhich, in any deliberation, ultimately turn the scale in favor of\nsome particular course, you will generally find that the decision is\ninfluenced, not by any clear arrangement of ideas leading to a formal\njudgment, but by some fanciful picture which seems to stand for one of\nthe alternatives in question.\n\nIn one of Voltaire's or Diderot's romances,\u2014I forget the precise\nreference,\u2014the hero, standing like a young Hercules at the parting\nof ways, can see no other representation of Virtue than his old tutor\nholding a snuff-box in his left hand, from which he takes a pinch\nand moralizes; whilst Vice appears in the shape of his mother's\nchambermaid. It is in youth, more especially, that the goal of our\nefforts comes to be a fanciful picture of happiness, which continues\nto hover before our eyes sometimes for half and even for the whole of\nour life\u2014a sort of mocking spirit; for when we think our dream is to\nbe realized, the picture fades away, leaving us the knowledge that\nnothing of what it promised is actually accomplished. How often this\nis so with the visions of domesticity\u2014the detailed picture of what\nour home will be like; or, of life among our fellow-citizens or in\nsociety; or, again, of living in the country\u2014the kind of house we\nshall have, its surroundings, the marks of honor and respect that will\nbe paid to us, and so on,\u2014whatever our hobby may be; chaque fou a sa marotte. It is often the same, too, with our dreams about one we\nlove. And this is all quite natural; for the visions we conjure up\naffect us directly, as though they were real objects; and so they\nexercise a more immediate influence upon our will than an abstract\nidea, which gives merely a vague, general outline, devoid of details;\nand the details are just the real part of it. We can be only\nindirectly affected by an abstract idea, and yet it is the abstract\nidea alone which will do as much as it promises; and it is the\nfunction of education to teach us to put our trust in it. Of course\nthe abstract idea must be occasionally explained\u2014paraphrased, as it\nwere\u2014by the aid of pictures; but discreetly, cum grano salis.\n\nSECTION 19\n\nThe preceding rule may be taken as a special case of the\nmore general maxim, that a man should never let himself be mastered\nby the impressions of the moment, or indeed by outward appearances at\nall, which are incomparably more powerful in their effects than the\nmere play of thought or a train of ideas; not because these momentary\nimpressions are rich in virtue of the data they supply,\u2014it is often\njust the contrary,\u2014but because they are something palpable to the\nsenses and direct in their working; they forcibly invade our mind,\ndisturbing our repose and shattering our resolutions.\n\nIt is easy to understand that the thing which lies before our very\neyes will produce the whole of its effect at once, but that time and\nleisure are necessary for the working of thought and the appreciation\nof argument, as it is impossible to think of everything at one and the\nsame moment. This is why we are so allured by pleasure, in spite of\nall our determination to resist it; or so much annoyed by a criticism,\neven though we know that its author it totally incompetent to\njudge; or so irritated by an insult, though it comes from some very\ncontemptible quarter. In the same way, to mention no other instances,\nten reasons for thinking that there is no danger may be outweighed by\none mistaken notion that it is actually at hand. All this shows the\nradical unreason of human nature. Women frequently succumb altogether\nto this predominating influence of present impressions, and there are\nfew men so overweighted with reason as to escape suffering from a\nsimilar cause.\n\nIf it is impossible to resist the effects of some external influence\nby the mere play of thought, the best thing to do is to neutralize it\nby some contrary influence; for example, the effect of an insult may\nbe overcome by seeking the society of those who have a good opinion of\nus; and the unpleasant sensation of imminent danger may be avoided by\nfixing our attention on the means of warding it off.\n\nLeibnitz tells of an Italian who managed to bear up under the\ntortures of the rack by never for a moment ceasing to think of the\ngallows which would have awaited him, had he revealed his secret; he\nkept on crying out: I see it! I see it!\u2014afterwards explaining that\nthis was part of his plan.\n\nIt is from some such reason as this, that we find it so difficult to\nstand alone in a matter of opinion,\u2014not to be made irresolute by the\nfact that everyone else disagrees with us and acts accordingly, even\nthough we are quite sure that they are in the wrong. Take the case of\na fugitive king who is trying to avoid capture; how much consolation\nhe must find in the ceremonious and submissive attitude of a faithful\nfollower, exhibited secretly so as not to betray his master's strict\nincognito; it must be almost necessary to prevent him doubting his\nown existence.\n\nSECTION 20\n\nIn the first part of this work I have insisted upon the\ngreat value of health as the chief and most important element in\nhappiness. Let me emphasize and confirm what I have there said by\ngiving a few general rules as to its preservation.\n\nThe way to harden the body is to impose a great deal of labor and\neffort upon it in the days of good health,\u2014to exercise it, both as a\nwhole and in its several parts, and to habituate it to withstand all\nkinds of noxious influences. But on the appearance of an illness or\ndisorder, either in the body as a whole or in many of its parts, a\ncontrary course should be taken, and every means used to nurse the\nbody, or the part of it which is affected, and to spare it any effort;\nfor what is ailing and debilitated cannot be hardened.\n\nThe muscles may be strengthened by a vigorous use of them; but not so\nthe nerves; they are weakened by it. Therefore, while exercising the\nmuscles in every way that is suitable, care should be taken to spare\nthe nerves as much as possible. The eyes, for instance, should be\nprotected from too strong a light,\u2014especially when it is reflected\nlight,\u2014from any straining of them in the dark, or from the\nlong-continued examination of minute objects; and the ears from too\nloud sounds. Above all, the brain should never be forced, or used too\nmuch, or at the wrong time; let it have a rest during digestion; for\nthen the same vital energy which forms thoughts in the brain has a\ngreat deal of work to do elsewhere,\u2014I mean in the digestive organs,\nwhere it prepares chyme and chyle. For similar reasons, the brain\nshould never be used during, or immediately after, violent muscular\nexercise. For the motor nerves are in this respect on a par with the\nsensory nerves; the pain felt when a limb is wounded has its seat in\nthe brain; and, in the same way, it is not really our legs and arms\nwhich work and move,\u2014it is the brain, or, more strictly, that part of\nit which, through the medium of the spine, excites the nerves in the\nlimbs and sets them in motion. Accordingly, when our arms and legs\nfeel tired, the true seat of this feeling is in the brain. This is why\nit is only in connection with those muscles which are set in motion\nconsciously and voluntarily,\u2014in other words, depend for their action\nupon the brain,\u2014that any feeling of fatigue can arise; this is not\nthe case with those muscles which work involuntarily, like the heart.\nIt is obvious, then, that injury is done to the brain if violent\nmuscular exercise and intellectual exertion are forced upon it at the\nsame moment, or at very short intervals.\n\nWhat I say stands in no contradiction with the fact that at the\nbeginning of a walk, or at any period of a short stroll, there often\ncomes a feeling of enhanced intellectual vigor. The parts of the brain\nthat come into play have had no time to become tired; and besides,\nslight muscular exercise conduces to activity of the respiratory\norgans, and causes a purer and more oxydated supply of arterial blood\nto mount to the brain.\n\nIt is most important to allow the brain the full measure of sleep\nwhich is required to restore it; for sleep is to a man's whole nature\nwhat winding up is to a clock. This measure will vary directly with\nthe development and activity of the brain; to overstep the measure is\nmere waste of time, because if that is done, sleep gains only so much\nin length as it loses in depth.\n\nIt should be clearly understood that thought is nothing but the\norganic function of the brain; and it has to obey the same laws in\nregard to exertion and repose as any other organic function. The brain\ncan be ruined by overstrain, just like the eyes. As the function of\nthe stomach is to digest, so it is that of the brain to think. The\nnotion of a soul,\u2014as something elementary and immaterial, merely\nlodging in the brain and needing nothing at all for the performance\nof its essential function, which consists in always and unweariedly\nthinking\u2014has undoubtedly driven many people to foolish practices,\nleading to a deadening of the intellectual powers; Frederick the\nGreat, even, once tried to form the habit of doing without sleep\naltogether. It would be well if professors of philosophy refrained\nfrom giving currency to a notion which is attended by practical\nresults of a pernicious character; but then this is just what\nprofessorial philosophy does, in its old-womanish endeavor to keep on\ngood terms with the catechism. A man should accustom himself to\nview his intellectual capacities in no other light than that of\nphysiological functions, and to manage them accordingly\u2014nursing or\nexercising them as the case may be; remembering that every kind of\nphysical suffering, malady or disorder, in whatever part of the body\nit occurs, has its effect upon the mind. The best advice that I know\non this subject is given by Cabanis in his Rapports du physique et du\nmoral de l'homme.\n\nThrough neglect of this rule, many men of genius and great scholars\nhave become weak-minded and childish, or even gone quite mad, as they\ngrew old. To take no other instances, there can be no doubt that the\ncelebrated English poets of the early part of this century, Scott,\nWordsworth, Southey, became intellectually dull and incapable towards\nthe end of their days, nay, soon after passing their sixtieth year;\nand that their imbecility can be traced to the fact that, at that\nperiod of life, they were all led on? by the promise of high pay, to\ntreat literature as a trade and to write for money. This seduced them\ninto an unnatural abuse of their intellectual powers; and a man who\nputs his Pegasus into harness, and urges on his Muse with the whip,\nwill have to pay a penalty similar to that which is exacted by the\nabuse of other kinds of power.\n\nAnd even in the case of Kant, I suspect that the second childhood of\nhis last four years was due to overwork in later life, and after he\nhad succeeded in becoming a famous man.\n\nEvery month of the year has its own peculiar and direct influence upon\nhealth and bodily condition generally; nay, even upon the state of the\nmind. It is an influence dependent upon the weather.\n\nFootnotes","title":"Counsels and Maxims/Chapter II","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":14032}