I was never going to read To Kill a Mockingbird. I escaped it in school, and wrongly thought that it was a dull book about a courtroom trial. I read it this week, and I loved it. It's now one of my favorite books ever. Harper Lee is a master storyteller, and her creative use of language is a true joy. Plus, the story's just great.
The book is told through the voice of Scout, who begins the story as a six year old tomboy Alabama small town girl with a precocious vocabulary that's both hilarious and fascinating. We quickly fall in love with Scout, and her entire family. Mockingbird is a book that will embrace you as a reader so much that you will have to love it back, especially if you read it as an adult, or revisit it now after a first youthful acquaintance. I read it this week only because of the incredible hoopla surrounding the "new" book by Lee just published, fifty five years after Mockingbird, which I've also now read.
The official story on this week's publication is that it was the original manuscript Lee sent to publishers in the late 1950s, and it tells an interestingly different story about mostly the same characters. The editor at Harper loved the characters but wanted an extensive rewrite that focused on their lives when Scout was younger and that expanded on the account of a courtroom trial that was originally mentioned in only a paragraph. Lee took the advice, pretty much started from scratch, in terms of the overall narrative, and produced the classic To Kill a Mockingbird. The original manuscript she had turned in was about the lives of the same characters 20 years later and in a different social time in America. It's what was published just this week.
There's almost too much to talk about in the new book Go Set a Watchman. I loved it, then I hated it, and then I loved it again. Finally, I went away deeply impressed by the way it raises fundamental social, political, and personal issues of a philosophical nature. A good book helps us see the world differently. A great book helps us see ourselves differently. This book may do both.
Almost every published review of the new book gets it wrong. Once you read it yourself, Google the reviews and you'll see what I mean.
I've read nearly all the first wave of reviews. They tend to consist of a sophisticated veneer over a tabloid alarmist screeching approach to what's portrayed as a shocking revelation about everyone's hero from Mockingbird, Atticus Finch. But what we really learn in the book is the complexity of his, and every hero's, true character, which is always more complicated than we at first realize. Scout goes through the biggest challenge of her life in coming to understand this, and comes to important realizations about herself as well as about her father.
I hope you'll read these two books as soon as you can. Click on the titles here if you want to get them through Amazon. I plan on blogging on them both, but will wait a few days so as not to be too much of a "spoiler" concerning plot and revelations. I hope there will be thousands of book groups considering all the ideas to be pondered in this new publication. It's shocking in many ways, provocative in more, and will surely give any careful reader new insights into the human condition, while at the same time being just a great, great quick read.
We'll talk more later.
I’m a philosopher. That gives me access to the wisdom of the ages – as well as an answer that completely perplexes people when they ask what I do for a living. But, on airplanes, and at parties, after the puzzlement subsides, people often ask me, within a few minutes, if the great thinkers of the past had any good advice about life, or life success, that we can use now. The answer is yes. From Plato and Aristotle on, the wisest people have left us powerful advice for success in anything we do. It boils down to seven universal conditions. I've alluded to this or talked about it in this blog before. Let's take a brief overview. Reminders can be helpful.
The 7 Cs of Success
For the most satisfying and sustainable forms of success, we need:
(1) A clear CONCEPTION of what we want, a vivid vision, a goal clearly imagined.
(2) A strong CONFIDENCE that we can attain that goal.
(3) A focused CONCENTRATION on what it takes to reach the goal.
(4) A stubborn CONSISTENCY in pursuing our vision.
(5) An emotional COMMITMENT to the importance of what we're doing.
(6) A good CHARACTER to guide us and keep us on a proper course.
(7) A CAPACITY TO ENJOY the process along the way.
There are certainly other tips associated with success, but every other one is just a version or application of one of these in specific situations. The 7 Cs give us the most universal, logical, and comprehensive framework for success. So, let’s take a quick look at each.
(1) A clear CONCEPTION. In any facet of our lives, we need to think through as clearly as possible what we want to accomplish. True success starts with a clear inner vision. The world as we find it is just raw material for what we can make it. We’re meant to be artists with our energies and our lives. The only way to do that well is to structure our actions around clear goals.
(2) A strong CONFIDENCE. Inner attitude is a key to outer results. Harvard psychologist William James learned long ago that confidence can have powerful effects. In any new enterprise, we need upfront, resilient faith in our prospects. James called that "precursive faith" - faith that runs ahead of the evidence. Sometimes we have to work hard for this attitude. But it’s worth the work, because it raises our probability for success. The best confidence comes from careful preparation and then augments it with a can-do perspective. It’s no guarantee of success. But it is a chief contributor to it.
(3) A focused CONCENTRATION. Success at anything challenging comes from planning your work and then working your plan. A focused concentration generates new perceptual abilities. Concentrating your thought and energy toward a clear goal, you begin to see things that will help with it. This focus involves planning, acting, and adjusting along the way. Even a flawed plan can get you going and lead to a better one. A focused concentration of thought and action is key.
(4) A stubborn CONSISTENCY. The word ‘consistency’ comes from two Greek roots, a verb meaning “to stand” and a particle meaning “together.” Consistency is all about standing together. Do my actions stand together with my words? Do the people I work with stand together? This is what true consistency is all about. It’s a matter of unifying your energy in a single direction. It’s also known as harmony. Inconsistency defuses power. Consistency moves us toward our goals.
(5) An emotional COMMITMENT. Passion is the core of extraordinary success. Truly caring. It’s a key to overcoming difficulties, seizing opportunities, and getting other people excited about their work. Too much goal setting in in business is done just with the intellect and not the heart. We need both to guide us and keep us functioning at the peak of our abilities, despite the obstacles we inevitably face.
(6) A good CHARACTER. Character inspires trust. And trust is necessary for people to work together well. But good character does more than provide for strong partnerships. It has an effect on each individual’s own freedom and insight. Bad character corrupts and blinds. Good character makes sustainable success more likely. In the end, character is all about strength.
(7) A CAPACITY TO ENJOY. The more you can enjoy the process of what you’re doing, the better the results tend to be. It’s easier to set creative goals. Confidence will come more naturally. And so on. A capacity to enjoy the process is linked to every other facilitator of success.
These conditions are deeply interconnected. They constitute a unified framework of tools for most fulfilling forms of achievement. It's been my joy to speak and write on them in books like True Success and The Art of Achievement, as well as The Stoic Art of Living and the ebook The 7 Cs of Success. I've been able to ponder them and discover their surprising depths for over 25 years. They can help us make our proper mark in the world. So, why should we ever settle for anything less?
The best people most often have a simple common tendency. They dwell not on how hard a task is, but on how to make it happen. In the New York Times Sunday Business section, the current CEO and President of Montblanc North America, Mike Giannattasio, talks about his office and his work life. At one point he says:
When I suggest that employees do something, they'll sometimes say, "It's not that easy." I gave everyone in the office a Staples Easy Button, and I tell them "You are able because you think you are able," which I've paraphrased from Virgil. People need a good understanding of what they can do.
I once heard that the New York Times was doing an article on bringing philosophy to a broader public audience. I had just published Philosophy for Dummies in the famous Dummies series of books, to help jump start their foray into the Humanities with the Metropolitan Museum of Art curator Thomas Hoving, who wrote for them the estimable Art for Dummies. I called the publicist for the series and told him what I'd heard about the Times piece being done, and that I'd love to be interviewed for the article. He said, in a trembling voice, "Well, I don't know. The New York Times is a REALLY big place." I sighed, and thanked him, and found the writer doing the article myself, and ended up being the lead person interviewed.
One of the smallest bestselling books ever written was on this precise problem. It's called, enigmatically, A Message to Garcia, and is by Elbert Hubbard. The President of the United States needed to get a message to a rebel leader named Garcia somewhere in Cuba. He was told that there was one man who could do the job, no matter what it took. The President summoned him and gave him the message. The messenger didn't ask where Garcia was, or explain how hard it might be to find him. He didn't make excuses, dwell on obstacles, or "manage expectations." He got going, took a boat, went into the jungle for three weeks, and accomplished his mission. Hubbard suggests that we almost never come across a person who is ready, willing, and able to do such a thing. Those who are able to take a message to Garcia will be the ones who make a big impact on the world.
If we're in a managerial or leadership position, how often do we ask someone to do something interesting and hear them say, "Well that's harder than you might think." And how often do we already know both exactly how hard it is and that the person we've asked can certainly do it if they actually try? And of course, most of us have also been on the other side of the request. I was once asked to do a talk about Steve Jobs. I could have said, "Well, I really don't know anything about Steve Jobs, and it would be really hard to put together a talk that was both original and helpful on him." But instead, I said, "Sure. Let me look into it. I'll come up with something great." And it was hard. And I made it happen. I've given that talk several times and even have the draft of a book based on it.
I've often said that if I was asked what the most important quality is that successful people share in common, I'd probably identify an overall action orientation - the proclivity toward making it happen, whatever the relevant "it" is, in context. They don't ignore obstacles. But they don't dwell on them either. The success mindset is one of making things happen.
And, no, that's not me at the top of this blog post. I still have hair. But not all great thinkers do. That's Seth Godin. Take his advice and mine. Go make something happen. Now.
"And he found out that if he wanted to fly, he first had to jump." - The Little Paris Bookshop, 141.
"If you don't take any risks, life will pass you by." - The Little Paris Bookshop, 188.
A few days ago, I told the story of being stuck in a Costco store for an hour after the intended day's shopping was done. I just had to wait. And rather than let either frustration or boredom have a run at me, I decided to take positive action and explore the books and the wines in the shop. As a result, I made some wonderful discoveries - the big, engaging supernaturalist novel by David Mitchell, The Bone Clocks, and a wonderful new book by Nina George called The Little Paris Bookshop, which is set mostly on a river barge that's been turned into a bookstore, and is really a story about risk and love. And, oh, yeah, there was also an amazing 2010 Bordeaux red for $16.95 - a vintage where you'll often pay hundreds of dollars a bottle. But $16.95? I took the risk. And it was really nice.
Risk.
When I chose to leave a tenured full professorship at Notre Dame to launch out on a mission as a public philosopher, people said two things to me that gave me pause, and actually kept me up for a couple of nights: "Do you realize all that you're giving up?" And: "How do you know you can sustain this new adventure?" They were asking me to consider the clear sacrifices I was making, and the lack of guarantees I had about my new venture. That was 20 years ago, this month.
Those are two questions that can always be asked about anything new. And they should be pondered. What are you giving up by doing this? What are you getting by doing this?
Whenever you leave one thing, or form of life, or comfortable way of engaging the world, and take up something new, there is, presumably, both risk and reward. You should indeed reflect on both.
There's a general truth in life: No risk, no reward. It's of course the cousin of "No pain, no gain." Every time we commit to anything new, anything that involves a new path forward, we risk our hearts, our status in the eyes of others, sometimes our finances, and of course, always, possible failure. Whenever there's a fork in the road that's unmarked, and we choose to choose and keep moving, we risk picking the wrong path, one that won't be right for us, in the deepest ways. But risk is inescapable in life. Given that truth, we want to take the best and most reasonable risks we can, given who we are and what we most properly value - however crazy they might seem to onlookers. What does your heart tell you? What does your head say, as well? And can you get them to agree? If you don't take any risks, life will certainly pass you by.
Reasonable risk contemplates the ration of risk and reward, as well as whether worst-case-scenario possibilities would still allow you options to move forward in a different way. Some risks have possible downsides that would clearly end your adventures on earth. In fact, many do. Some are worth that risk. Others aren't. Some risks could potentially wreck havoc, while still allowing you another chance in the game. And in each such case, you should make sure you're fully committed to the potential rewards before launching out in the face of such risk. But since, in the most general sense, some form of risk is really unavoidable, we should indeed be prepared to embrace the risks that seem right for us, the ones that can potentially grow us and our positive impact on the world, starting with those fellow citizens of the world who are closest to us.
Life is a dynamic flow that at best involves protecting some things and letting go of others, as we move and change and grow. Risk is about release, but it's also about reaching out for something new and great.
The New York Times and many other news outlets recently ran glowing obituaries on a remarkable man, Nicholas Winston, who, as a young 29 year old clerk at the London Stock Exchange, visited Czechoslovakia, saw a need, and did some amazing things to save the lives of 669 Jewish children from the growing Nazi threat, and despite the tremendous risks he took, lived to the ripe old age of 106, from which vantage point he could see the 6,000 descendants, and counting, of those he saved. When he was asked to reflect on his choices, he said, "Why do people do different things? Some people revel in taking risks, and some go through life taking no risks at all." His risks had consequences for good that will go on forever. Yours can, too.
We should all be willing to take the risk, however big or small, that can have great consequences for good. We should consider what we're releasing, and what we're reaching for, and when conviction propels us onward, we can listen to the concerns of others without letting those worries stop us from taking the risk that seems right.
We're given raw materials, every day. What tapestry do we use them to weave?
My wife and I were in Costco the other day to get me some new sunglasses, and also to buy a cart load of household staples. She wrote a check to pay for the sunglasses and then realized that it was her last. We couldn't buy the cartload of stuff unless she went home and got more checks. My Mastercard and Visa were not Ok. She asked if I would wait with the cart. I quickly calculated that it would mean probably an hour of being stuck there with nothing to occupy my time. And I had stuff to do. But I quickly blocked out those thoughts and said, "Sure, Ok. You go. I'll be here looking at books or something." She suggested I also wander through the wine section. I still couldn't quite believe I was about to lose an hour of my life, but I've learned, most of the time, not to let useless negative emotions bubble up and take over. You never know when something that looks bad may produce something good. And, boy, did that ever happen.
The raw materials - An unexpected hour by myself in Costco. The challenge: What would I weave?
First, I found two great books I had never heard about, and bought both. One, I've just finished, a 624 page opus that's almost impossible to describe - The Bone Clocks, by David Mitchell, author of the Cloud Atlas, that was recently made into a movie. It traces the life of a girl, Holly Sykes, from her home in England and family that she abandons at age 15, to run away and live with her older boyfriend, who, it turns out, has already dumped her before she gets to his house with a bag of her possessions and big dreams of love. When the book ends, we've seen threads woven in and out of her life, into her seventies, and up to the year 2043 or beyond. If I were pushed to say what the book is about, I'd venture this: It's an exploration of what spiritual powers may lurk mostly unseen behind the facades of everyday life. It's about how many of us have glimpses of something else, under the surface of things, whether we want to characterize our experiences as telepathy, or precognition, or in some other way. Occasionally, there's a voice, or perhaps even voices. Now and then there might be a sense of leading, or guidance. Maybe we have a quick flash of what is to come. In the book God and the Philosophers, I tell my own such story. And in Philosophy for Dummies, I tell others. Mitchell shows how these things enter Holly's life and how she deals with them.
It's hard not to be fascinated by a book that purports to pull back the veil of the ordinary, and show glimmers of what might be out there, or in here, beyond. Mitchell is an excellent writer, and the book is strangely compelling. There are meditations throughout on such things as power, and death, and meaning - great stuff for philosophical readers like me. But there also turns out to be more of a supernatural thriller story waiting in the wings than you might ever imagine at the outset. There end up being passages that have a sort of Harry Potter flair, but for older readers. The end is a bit dystopian for my tastes, however realistic, given current world politics and environmental degradation, but the road to get there was pretty fascinating.
And, yeah, I also got another book during my wait at Costco, one that I'll start today - The Little Paris Bookshop, by Nine George, a bestseller in Germany, Italy, Poland, and the Netherlands that just made it to our shores. Apparently, it's about an old bookseller who gives people books to help with their lives. I'll report on it later.
And I would be remiss not to mention my few minutes in the wine section. My wife and I had just watched Red Obsession, on Netflix, which is about a spectacular year in Bordeaux, when the conditions were perfect for great wine. That was the year many newly affluent Chinese discovered the top Chateaux there and began bidding up the price of the wines beyond all reason. But in Costco, I found one of those wines, of that year's vintage, that was not at all a crazy price, but a super low one. I bought it, and was amazed at what you can experience from that year, for under $20. I may identify it later, once I've gone back and bought more.
So that time at Costco that was almost sure to be a wasted hour, that I assumed would feel like three or four hours as I waited and waited? It felt like ten minutes, and produced books and a wine that have already enhanced my life. Plus, we have enough paper towels to last through the century.
It's amazing how a new thread, however it at first looks, may end up enhancing the weave of our lives.
There was a lone french fry lying on the carpeted floor almost under a table in the busy Sports Center Cafe. I pointed it out to my exercise partner. And I said, "There are people who would offer you money to pick that up off the floor and eat it, but I'm not one of them."
"Five dollars."
"What?"
"I'd do it for five dollars," he told me and sipped his coffee.
Of course, he surfs in the shark infested waters of North Carolina every day, for hours, and for fun.
Later that day I recounted the situation to my wife. "A million dollars," she said.
"Wow," I replied. "I was thinking more like a thousand."
That's a big gap, I thought, between five dollars and a million, or even a thousand.
Disgust and desire. We're all different in how we react to each. But we all do react. We find certain things disgusting, and others desirable. Disgust is usually associated with an underlying perception of risk, and desire with a lure of reward. A fry on the floor, I'd prefer to avoid. Money, I can always use to good effect.
Now, let's take a big step back from disgust. There's another, lesser, and much more common negative category - dislike. There are many things we dislike that don't in any way disgust us. We just find them unpleasant. They hold no intrinsic attraction at all. In fact, to the contrary, we'd rather not do them. But the problem is that we often have to, for the sake of some related need, or a greater good.
Suppose, for example, that you don't like to travel. But a job that could pay very well demands it. Is there a number, a salary, a financial scenario, that will make you take that job, despite its involving what you dislike? Or consider another possibility: You have an idea for a new business. But starting up a new company will demand almost all your time. You'll hardly see your spouse or your children, for at least the first two or three years. Is there a number that would motivate you to do it? Do you think there's a number that would motivate them to want you to do it? Your answers will tell you something about your values, and also how you think of theirs.
We make choices all the time. Life is just a string of choices. How do you make yours? What are you willing to do to get what you want? What would you give up? What would you take on? Do you decide and choose wisely? Do you consider the costs? The risks? The downsides? Or are you more typically just fixated on the positive possibilities? Too many of us get so mesmerized by what we desire that we take on far too much of what we dislike. And some people who make a life of doing that end up with a situation the eventually evokes their own disgust. Let's try hard not to be among them.
My friend sees a french fry on the floor and sees an easy five bucks. I just see grossness and germs. My wife apparently sees the Bubonic Plague. How you view the challenges and opportunities of the world says a lot about you. And considering such scenarios can be a path of new self knowledge.
I'd like to recommend that path. But I just have one question: Would you like fries with it?
Today I just want to share a powerful and profound short poem by Nobel laureate Wislawa Szymborska (1923-2012). It comes from her book Map: Collected and Last Poems. I came across it on www.brainpickings.org, one of my favorite websites. Read it twice if you can. The last two lines are particularly striking, in the context of the poem, and of our lives. I do grieve for some of what I will forever have done. Perhaps you do, too. But there is an alchemy that can redeem and reweave even our worst into a different and never expected best.
LIFE WHILE-YOU-WAIT
Life While-You-Wait.
Performance without rehearsal.
Body without alterations.
Head without premeditation.I know nothing of the role I play.
I only know it’s mine. I can’t exchange it.I have to guess on the spot
just what this play’s all about.Ill-prepared for the privilege of living,
I can barely keep up with the pace that the action demands.
I improvise, although I loathe improvisation.
I trip at every step over my own ignorance.
I can’t conceal my hayseed manners.
My instincts are for happy histrionics.
Stage fright makes excuses for me, which humiliate me more.
Extenuating circumstances strike me as cruel.Words and impulses you can’t take back,
stars you’ll never get counted,
your character like a raincoat you button on the run —
the pitiful results of all this unexpectedness.If only I could just rehearse one Wednesday in advance,
or repeat a single Thursday that has passed!
But here comes Friday with a script I haven’t seen.
Is it fair, I ask
(my voice a little hoarse,
since I couldn’t even clear my throat offstage).You’d be wrong to think that it’s just a slapdash quiz
taken in makeshift accommodations. Oh no.
I’m standing on the set and I see how strong it is.
The props are surprisingly precise.
The machine rotating the stage has been around even longer.
The farthest galaxies have been turned on.
Oh no, there’s no question, this must be the premiere.
And whatever I do
will become forever what I’ve done.
We have no clear idea what's next. I mean, after this life. Really.
We speak of heaven, and "the next adventure" but we have for this inevitable end that each of us will meet the most extreme dearth of detail regarding any important thing imaginable. That's why life after death books sell so well, and it's why psychics and clairvoyants stay in business.
One thing seems likely to me, having studied this for decades. It will matter then what we do now. We should treat each other in this life as well as we possibly can. For theists, it's an obligation. For atheists and agnostics, it's a bold dramatic gesture. For all, it's an exercise of radical freedom, achieved with difficulty - not to react slavishly and reciprocally to what others do to us, but to set new standards for what those others need to have done for them. Each of us is called to be a pioneer of elevating action. Each of us is called to heroic grace.
We should treat others exceedingly well, despite what they sometimes do to us, not just because of what they are created to be, but because of what we ourselves are created to be. The fact is that we deserve the effects of such actions as those we ought to perform. Many great thinkers, such as Plato and Shakespeare's Hamlet, have understood this. We all need to, as well.
The relationship between the now and the hereafter is simple. The now is limited. We know that. And it will affect whatever hereafter there is - even from an atheistic perspective, for what is now created and done will never cease to have been, forever into the future. Every act is eternal. The full story of reality is vastly and everlastingly different, depending on what we do now, day-to-day. There's always the possibility of demeaning behavior or elevating action - it's left to be our choice. What then will we do?
What's more important, kindness, or respect? Are they equals, or is one subordinate to the other?
Ok, in case you're thinking "Who cares?" or "What difference does it make?" consider this: When you prioritize kindness in your dealings with others, you may act differently from what you would do if you prioritized respect. For example, many people often withhold what they consider to be difficult truths, or facts that might upset, frighten or worry a friend, or family member, or coworker, in an attempt to be kind. Late in the Harry Potter stories, Albus Dumbledore pretty much admits to Harry that one of his greatest mistakes was to do this and keep certain things from the young boy that he should have told him much sooner.
When we withhold difficult truths from someone who might genuinely want to know them, however hurtful or disturbing they might be, we are not respecting the other person as a mature spirit, or soul, capable of dealing with difficulty. We might say we're doing it to be kind. But we're not showing the ultimate of respect. When we truly respect another person, we tend to be more forthright and honest. We'll also certainly try to do this, to be truthful, with kindness, so it isn't a matter of choosing one rather than the other. But it's a matter of which guides which.
Think for a moment about the relationship of these two qualities, kindness and respect.
Kindness without respect is either paternalism, or is the mere outward appearance of the caring virtue and not its reality, but rather more a form of manipulation, or else a mere cultural habit to smooth out the bumps of human relations.
Respect without kindness can be a sort of formal and almost grudging sense of at least rough and partial equality in some crucial regard. But without the warming influence of true care, it's by itself rather cold.
The ideal, in my thinking, is to pair respect and kindness in our treatment of others, but with respect always being the senior partner, so to speak, or the priority, overall. Kindness is of infinite value, but is always to be felt, and shown, as a way of respecting another person. Respect is, in this perspective, always in the lead. So, if I'm right in this conclusion, and you think that withholding some crucial information from another person is indeed an act of kindness on your part, you should ask yourself whether it also, first and foremost, shows full respect to the other person, as an equally valuable and autonomous decision maker with a right to know anything that would impinge importantly on their lives, and able in their own way to handle their emotions and reactions to the truth.
At least, this is what I got in my last dip into a swimming pool. Sometimes, first thing in the morning, before the heat of the day, I'll get into the pool and move slowly back and forth in three to four feet of water, in a sort of zen walking meditation, and the other morning, while doing so, these were the thoughts that at one point spontaneously emerged. I hope they're right. Because of the priority of my respect for you, dear reader. Thanks for your own reflection on the matter.
What's necessary in order to be really good at something? Well, the right talent, or set of talents, for one thing. And lots of work, or practice, for another. But still, there's something else.
Let's ask a really different question. How should you react when someone wanting to help you suggests or even recommends you for a new job, position, role, opportunity, or goal that doesn't strike you as quite right? Your friend/fan/helper/coach/mentor/agent is excited about the new possibility, but you're uneasy, or unsure. You don't feel an inner fire. Sometimes, it's great to stretch outside your comfort zone. And yet, you should always listen to your heart. Here's an example. A Hollywood agent in the 1950s has discovered an attractive young woman he wants to put in the movies. Good things are happening for her already. A prominent man in the community, a bold-faced name in the papers, someone having his picture taken all the time, wants to marry her. The agent is himself relating what happened next, out in Los Angeles:
Then wham! The Story of Dr. Wassall. You see that picture? Cecil B. DeMille. Gary Cooper. Jesus. I kill myself, it's all set: they're going to test her for the part of Dr. Wassell's nurse. One of his nurses, anyway. Then wham! The phone rings." He picked a telephone out of the air and held it to his ear. "She says, this is Holly, I say honey you sound far away, she says I'm in New York, I say what the hell are you doing in New York when it's Sunday and you got the test tomorrow? She says I'm in New York cause I've never been to New York. I say get your ass on a plane and get back here, she says I don't want it. I say what's your angle, doll? She says you got to want it to be good and I don't want it. I say what the hell do you want, and she says when I find out, you'll be the first to know.
That's O.J. Berman talking to our narrator, the upstairs neighbor of Holly Golightly, in Truman Capote's short novel Breakfast at Tiffany's.
Holly's words ring true: You got to want it to be good. It's true of acting, and of almost anything else. In considering a new opportunity or possibility, you have to ask yourself, "Do I really want it?" Can I envision it happening? Does it stir me up? Would it be fulfilling and fun? If not, it's probably not right for you, at least, not now. But if so, if you do want it, if it lights a flame in you, then you have one of the main conditions for success - an emotional commitment.
Life is too short to concentrate our energies on things we really don't care about. Find something you want, and pursue that with your whole heart. And if you're like me and are already doing it, keep at it!
We're all deeply connected. So, how did we get so far apart?
The news is always full of anger, hatred, murder, and theft, not to mention war and threats of war, and to read it every day, you'd come to think that the most common mindset in the world is the adversarial stand: Me against you, us against them, ours versus theirs. And yet, as all the deepest thinkers across the most profound sciences and religions tell us, we're all connected at the most fundamental level imaginable. We blossom from the same roots. We've bubbled up from the same soup. We're also touched by a common spirit, and inhabit a common home. We need to appreciate these deep connections more. We need to put aside false division and live our unity.
I came across an odd little story recently. And it stuck in my head. We have a lot of great writers where I live, in Wilmington, NC, both novelists and nonfiction types. And among our local magazines is a great monthly celebrating the arts and culture, called Salt. In the most recent issue, the great novelist Wiley Cash (A Land More Kind Than Home, This Dark Road to Mercy) tells some stories about southern writers on book tour. This one tweaked my attention. Wiley writes:
When my friend Tom Franklin left Mississippi on book tour, he told his wife that he was taking along his copy of Cold Mountain just in case he ran into Charles Frazier on his stop in North Carolina. "You're crazy," his wife said. "North Carolina's too big. What are the odds?" Halfway through his tour, Tom realized he needed a new pair of blue jeans, so when he arrived in Raleigh for his book signing at Quail Ridge Books, he headed first to the Crabtree Valley Mall, where he ran into Charles Frazier. "I saw him in J.C. Penney," he said. "I told him I had a copy of Cold Mountain out in my car, and he said he'd be happy to sign it."
Ok. How strange is that? Think about it for a second. In a state with millions of people, scattered through hundreds, and maybe even thousands of cities and towns and hamlets, all moving around here and there, or sometimes, if they're writers, staying inside their own homes while writing all day, what's the probability that this one guy visiting a few cities in North Carolina for a book tour will personally see a particular famous author he admires, and has prepared to see by bringing along a book to be signed, in a J.C. Penney - not in a bookstore, or library, or public radio station lobby, or Apple Store, where writers sometimes go to get their Macs fixed? And yes, of course, I know that coincidences, minor and major, happen all the time. But really. My life has been chock full of such things, and it's almost like I've been destined to hear other people's stories of the like, so that I'll think hard about what these marvels may indicate, or mean, far beyond just the real but still odd fact that even the immensely improbable is probably going to happen now and then.
I've come to suspect that our deep connections, at the most fundamental level, give rise to a form of potential informational access, and knowledge, for which we don't have either clear categories, or any solid understanding. And yet, our understanding has never been a requirement for reality. Throughout human history, we've failed for long stretches of time to understand many things that were nonetheless real. Sometimes our understanding catches up with the experienced realities that have formerly eluded us, and sometimes the mysteries continue. But their actuality does not depend on our conceptual grasp.
Are there then connections and ways of knowing that we could, in principle, be using to enhance our lives and positive impacts on the world around us? A psychologist friend once told me that he thinks the single most important quality for human beings to have is open-ness. Are we open enough to the strange and potentially fruitful interconnections that we may enjoy with others?
In a world of obvious and noisy divisiveness, perhaps we should think about such things more. Pay attention. Listen. And when you feel a nudge that maybe doesn't make sense, on the surface, and that might even elicit an "Are you crazy?" response if you mention it to someone else, maybe you should show it some respect, and act on it. You just never know. Or maybe you do.
Who are you in the story of your life? What's your overall narrative? How do you cast yourself as the hero of your story - or at least one of the heroes? It can make a big difference in how you live.
My friend Clancy Martin has a very nice review essay in today's New York Times, discussing the new book with a clever and ironic title, Keep It Fake: Inventing an Authentic Life, by Eric G. Wilson. The lead idea is a simple one. A guy went to his therapist depressed, and wanting to be a better father than he thinks he is. The therapist demanded that he go home and construct a new narrative for his life, in which he wasn't a bad, depressed father, but something else altogether. The author took up the challenge with vigor and began viewing himself as "Crazy Dad" who would do all sorts of outlandish and fun things with his kids. He began acting a new role, revamping the Book, or Reality Show, that is his life. And things got much better, right away.
We're always told to know ourselves and be true to ourselves. But isn't it just as important to invent ourselves well? We're all artists. Our selves are works of art that are created and crafted day in and day out by our thoughts and actions. Who are you in the story of your life? Do you allow someone else to define you, at work or at home? Or do you take on the responsibility and hard joy of self creation, self definition, and becoming that Aristotle thought is so important?
What story do you tell yourself about who you are? Is it working? Or is it time for a creative redo? Should you be playing a different role in the way you see yourself and approach your day? Or would that make you somehow fake, or inauthentic? Perhaps, done right, it's all about making, and not faking. We're challenged to create and take on roles in life that will work. My philosophy buddy Clancy Martin, and the author Eric Wilson, give us all something worth thinking about.
Life coaches now tell us to believe in ourselves, organize our lives better, and remember to breathe. Medieval life coaches would whisper in people's ears, "You're going to die. Remember your mortality." What was up with that?
I just finished reading Ernest Hemingway's famous novel, A Farewell to Arms. An American has gone to Italy in the First World War, to help the Italians fight the Austrians and Germans. This man, the narrator of the story, drives an ambulance and other vehicles near the front. He's badly injured, meets a nurse, falls in love, receives a medal for heroism, and months later returns to the front. So far, the story tracks the life of the author. Then, through a series of unexpected small situations and accidents, our narrator becomes separated from his unit, and is wrongly suspected of desertion. He escapes an imminent execution out in the countryside only by diving into a river under fire. He reunites with his love and, now on the run, they manage with great difficulty to get to safety in Switzerland, where she goes into labor with his baby. Fortunately, they're able to enter a major hospital for the delivery. The story is full of twists and turns, ups and downs for the two of them.
At that point in the narrative Hemingway goes far beyond confronting us with the crazy and sometimes scary vicissitudes of life, as seen in the adventures of the soldier and his great love, and begins to rub our noses in the fickle inescapability of death in this world. The last pages of the book are so bleak in articulating the author's deepest attitudes, the whole thing could have been called, "A Farewell to Meaning and Hope."
This wasn't, of course, the only time Papa H took on the topic of mortality. Many months ago, I quoted here from his other novel, The Sun Also Rises. Just eleven pages into it, there is this brief conversation, worth repeating, that starts with Robert Cohn, Princeton graduate and amateur boxer, speaking to his old friend Jake, the narrator of the novel, in a bar – where, it seems that, interestingly, philosophical reflection about life often takes place:
“Listen, Jake,” he leaned forward on the bar. “Don’t you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?”
“Yes, every once in a while.”
“Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we'll be dead?”
“What the hell, Robert,” I said, “ What the hell?”
“I'm serious.”
“It’s one thing I don’t worry about,” I said.
“You ought to.”
As we all know, but, like Jake, tend not to think about very much, the life adventure we’re on right now is a limited-time offer. This is an interesting point of reflection for all of us who are already in mid-life or - like me - beyond. But it’s an important fact for any of us, however young or old. Are we making the most of our time? Are we using our talents in the best ways, and taking advantage of the opportunities that come to us each day? Are we enjoying the adventure that we have, to the extent that we can? Or are we letting ourselves be held back by habit and worn down by our own inner reactions to things that are outside our control?
The answers to these questions often turn on another one: How well do we handle change in our lives, day to day – the little, unexpected events, and the bigger disruptions; the challenges and the opportunities? Do we resist almost all change and regret it, or are we creative artists with it?
As the bluntly philosophical Robert points out for Jake and all the rest of us, there will come a time when further change in this world is impossible for each of us – maybe thirty-five years from now; maybe longer; and maybe much sooner. We never know. So why not make the most of this incredible journey while we can? Great things are possible for us, with the right approach to work and life.
Hemingway himself may have taken a very negative attitude toward the challenges of life, but he did pretty well for himself in his chosen profession, despite the many ups and downs he couldn't control, until he chose exactly the wrong action on the day that ended his adventure.
We shouldn't follow his negativity of attitude, or many of his choices. But we do benefit from being reminded of the churn and fragility of our situations throughout this life. We don't find ourselves in an easy world, or with endless time. We're clearly in a place of challenge. But that just means we need to develop all our strengths and the most positive attitudes we can in order to flourish and prevail, within the parameters given us. Ultimately, that can provide us with a Farewell to Anxiety, and a Farewell to Fear.
Are the things we own blessings or burdens? Actually, do we own our stuff at all, or does it own us?
The New York Times ran a wild story this weekend about a French tech entrepreneur living in the US who has had a very unusual mid-life crisis. With an estimated net worth of 100 million dollars, Fabrice Grinda came to feel that all the great stuff he owned had become a burden that was actually keeping him from the more important things in life. So he decided to downsize radically and experience an unencumbered existence. He moved out of his huge mansion that sits on 20 acres of land in New York state, got rid of his $300,000 McLaren sports car, released his $13,000 a month apartment in the City, gave away tons of stuff, and kept only what he could fit into a roller bag suitcase and a backpack. He decided that he'd simply be a free spirit nomad and go live with his friends, one at a time, enjoying their company, rather than all that stuff. Having shed his physical burdens, however, he quickly became a major burden to each of those friends.
It seems that the wealthy man didn't do his own laundry, or make his own bed when he stayed with friends. He liked to talk loud, stay up really late, and eat everything in their refrigerators. He ended up giving all of them their own crises and learning as a result that the unencumbered life wasn't as easy as he had imagined.
This past week, I read several short novels by John Steinbeck, including the very funny Tortilla Flat, and the almost equally amusing Cannery Row, both of which are about groups of poor but festive characters in and around Monterey, California, in the early days of the twentieth century. They had no regular jobs, often slept in the woods, or in old, run down buildings that others provided, and managed to "find" food and wine on a fairly regular basis. They were scoundrels with hearts of gold. They lived off the generosity of their neighbors, but somehow thought of themselves as the real community benefactors. Their unencumbered lives gave them a special freedom, at least in their own minds. As you read their stories, you can't quite decide whether they present an extreme yet attractive ideal of the free spirit, or are really just completely irresponsible social parasites, living as slaves to their own peculiar instabilities and passing appetites, while depending on the charity, or gullibility, of others to support them.
Both the stories of Steinbeck and the peculiar tale of Fabrice Grinda raise the question: Are the things we own indeed blessings or burdens? Do we actually have possession of them, or do they have possession of us? Are the many responsibilities of ownership to be avoided or embraced?
You may not be surprised to hear that most of the great practical philosophers have said, "It depends." On what? Attitude and intent. Your proclivities, enjoyments, and tolerances. I've known people with four or five big houses. They seemed unburdened by the responsibility. They knew how to manage the complexity. They thoroughly enjoyed what they had. And it didn't at all appear to constrain their freedom. There are, of course, also big moral issues deep in the background, behind all lavish lifestyles, matters of global scope and existential perplexity, but my friends have seemed unburdened by those, as well. We can't solve all the world's problems. But we can solve some of our own.
The point of responsibility is to grow us as souls. Our commitments, to people, endeavors, and things, form us. We can make bad commitments or good ones. How do they function in our lives? That's the central question. It's all about functionality. Can we do great and valuable things with the people, endeavors, and things in our lives? Do they serve to enrich us, or to burden us? The things we own need to be maintained, repaired, protected, and, of course, used. And we all differ as to where the point is that this becomes a problem rather than something we can enjoy. We typically don't discover our limits in such matters except by crossing them and finally seeing them from the other side. That's part of what keeps fantasy alive for those who haven't reached their limits, yet.
Throughout history, ascetics have believed that the path to salvation lies in ridding ourselves of all our stuff and then opening ourselves to the spirit. But as a philosopher, I believe that the second, and ultimately important, activity does not depend on the first. Physical things can become a spiritual obstacle, but they need not be, in proper measure and with the right role in our lives.
The Oracle at Delphi proclaimed, "Nothing in Excess." What counts as excess for you? Are you living on the far side of it, and suffering from that? Do you need to make some adjustments? Fabrice Grinda came to believe he needed to make a radical change. But like many, he went too far, and has been schooled, as a result, in moderation. I guess that's hard when your finances tell you anything's possible. But regardless of what our net worth might whisper to us, many good things are possible, and they depend on our own discernment, a function of wisdom. It's the path of wisdom to choose properly. Don't let a culture of materialism dictate your life and put you in chains. And it's just as important to avoid false fantasies of freedom. Pick your own proper way. And that, ultimately, depends on the Oracle's second main injunction, "Know Yourself."
I wish my father was alive. I lost him decades ago, when he was only about six years older than I am now. As Father's Day approaches later this month, I have some thoughts to share.
I wish my father was alive today, and for many, many reasons, but one is so that I could ask him lots of questions. What was it like to grow up on a farm, as he did, and roam the woods? What were his inner thoughts as a boy living in a small house without a bathroom or running water on hundreds of acres, isolated in the sand hills outside Cameron, North Carolina? What did he do to occupy himself on those solitary days in the pine forest, or walking along the big stream bordered with huge boulders that ran through the land? Did he have a creative and lively inner life? Did he populate an interior world with friends and exciting adventures? How did he imagine his future? Was he a dreamer or a worrier? Was he eager about life, or afraid? Did he in those days have a dog to be his companion? I don't even know that about him.
He worked hard when I was a boy, and was away long hours each day. But when he was around, we did great, fun things together. We built toys, made sling shots from the limbs of dogwood trees, and flew kites so high we could hardly see them and their decorative tails as they rode the warm summer breeze of the day. We took long walks, full of wonder, through the woods around my little childhood home on the outskirts of Durham, NC. We played basketball, or threw a baseball back and forth. My dad taught me how to do a Yo-Yo and a Hula Hoop. He showed me how to play a harmonica, and the way to make a pretty decent drum out of an Oatmeal box.
He built me a real wooden club house in the backyard, an impressive structure, at least six feet by six feet square inside, with maybe an eight foot ceiling, and a real roof and a door. He found somewhere an old short wave radio, with a large dark wood cabinet, and put it in there for me and my few neighborhood friends. I remember helping him to string thin wire around the back yard as an extensive antenna system. We'd turn on the radio, and slowly turn the dial through static that we knew was from outer space, and then we'd hear a faint broadcast of something we were equally sure was from China.
My dad and I built bright red scooters, and rubber band rifles that shot huge thick bands that would tear through newspapers we'd hang on the outdoor clothesline as targets. We'd lie down on the floor and play marbles. We'd spin tops, and play cards and watch television together on the old black and white set. We built a "jumping board" in the back yard, like a see-saw but only about a foot tall. I could leap onto one end, as my friend stood on the other, and would then be launched up a foot or two in the air. He'd land and shoot me into the air, in turn. And this could go on for hours.
My dad was a master badminton player, and even better at horse shoes. He'd do either with me as long as I wanted. And he once set up a high jump in the back, and promptly broke his leg leaping over it.
He also sat and told me stories, now and then, about the farm, or the second world war, where one day, he was walking toward enemy territory carrying bands of machine-gun ammunition strapped across his chest, and he noticed a rut in the dirt road, and stepped in it for no reason, and as his body tilted left, he heard, and thought he even felt, a bullet whiz by his right ear. If he hadn't stepped into the rut, he would have been killed, he told me, and I never would have been born. He thought the reason for that step was so that I could come into the world. The concept filled me with the miracle of existence.
I heard about places like Iwo Jima, Okinawa, and Saipan. One night out in fox holes, he was on guard duty and under strict orders as to what he had to do if he heard a sound in "no man's land" between his position and the enemy. Late into the moonless evening, in pitch dark, he did hear a noise. "Halt! Who goes there?" Nothing. "Halt! Who goes there?" Silence. By now, some of the other soldiers were awake, and mentally preparing themselves for something bad. Their adversaries were close. An attack could happen at any time. Then there was another sound of movement, or rustling. Once chance more, by the designated sequence of things. "Halt! Who goes there?" And then his orders had a final step. He had to shoot into the dark, in the direction of the sound. And he did.
After the echo of his shots, there was no further sound. Tense minutes passed, and then hours. And when the sun first began to rise, he could see that there was a body, dead on the ground, some distance away. It turned out that it was his best friend. That was a story he told me only once. It ended with silence as thick as that night was dark, I imagined in the moment.
His sister, a sweet, greatly loved friend and childhood playmate on their lonely farm, had suddenly grown sick, and just as suddenly died. So, before his teens, he had lost his first best friend. Then he lost his second one.
He was in many ways, in the years after that, a quiet person. As a teenager, he had left the farm and gone to Baltimore, Maryland, and applied for a job at Martin Aircraft. The interviewer asked, "What do you want to do?" He answered, "Everything." The man looked puzzled. My father said, "Start me in any department. As soon as I'm as good as anyone else in there, move me to another one. I want to learn everything." And he did. By age nineteen, he was in Experimental Design, helping to build the newest airplanes for the military. His boss wrote the War Department that he should never be drafted, because he was needed stateside for his aeronautical expertise - this young high school graduate. The War Department wrote back that no one his age could possibly know that much. And soon, he was carrying a rifle in the infantry.
He built radio stations, ran them, sold all the ad time, and learned to deal with all kinds of people. He got into some amazing business deals, and then was shut out by crooked partners. He had a promising future, and then nothing. He sold cars, and encyclopedias. He managed a bowling alley. And then he learned that, in real estate, he could walk the woods as he had in childhood. So he started his own company, and returned to the land, building environmentally sensitive developments.
My mother had been raised in an orphanage, and had emotional scars from those years that did not allow for a happy marriage or a good parenting experience. And yet, the two of them stayed together. And it was tough for my dad, during my years of growing up. So he would often retreat from the house, to find peace. I missed him when he wasn't around. But I understood.
And then, as a teen, I developed my own interests. I was in a band. I played guitar. I traveled a lot. I was a good student. I read and studied off by myself. I then got a scholarship and went off to college where I began to chart out my own life. I left for graduate school, far away. I got married, and had my own family. The teen and early twenties drive for independence, and separation, and a life of my own, had instilled habits that were not good to have. I didn't call my father enough, when I lived a thousand miles away. I didn't write him very often. I didn't see him enough. And when I did, I was too caught up in my own life and career and didn't have a sufficiently deep curiosity to ask about his childhood, and his teens, and his life and thoughts and feelings through the years. I wish now that I had. I almost desperately wish I had. It's a connection with the flow of life and the existential stream of where we come from and who we are that we should never ignore or neglect. I had made a huge mistake.
I sat with him when he was dying, and beyond conversation. I told him he was going on to prepare a place for me and the rest of the family, one day. I made sure to say that he had been a great dad.
I kissed his bald head when he was dead.
I wish my father was alive today. If yours is, please talk to him. Ask him all those things I can't ask my dad now, and didn't when I could have. And listen. Really listen. Then remember. And give him a little hug and a kiss. While he's alive. Ok?
Oh, but in case you think your old man's a jerk, or annoying, or you've had a bad disagreement with him in the past, here's the honest truth: None of that matters, in the big scheme of things. He gave you life, and he's going to die. And so are you. Don't live with regrets like I have, regrets you can avoid. Show your love with sincere conversation.
Ralph Waldo Emerson was in many ways our last truly public philosopher. At least, until me. About a hundred and fifty years ago, he spoke to business and civic groups all over the country, bringing them the best of his own philosophical thought. I try to do the same thing, in our own time.
Emerson believed in "self-reliance" - in trusting your deepest instincts, and in building for yourself a philosophy and worldview that is strong enough to support your life and work in the world. He drew on many great thinkers of the past, as we can, too. But he reminded us that these great thinkers were just ordinary people like us, struggling with the challenges of life and seeking ways of doing some good in the world. We can do, in our own ways, basically what they did - we can use the resources we have to come up with our own maps of the world that will move us forward. Again, it's not wise to do so alone, with no guidance at all. There's plenty of wisdom already available for us to use. But you need to appropriate any of that great wisdom out there as your own, certifying it in your life, and living it yourself.
The place I went to grad school, Yale, is lucky to have one of the great literary critics of all time on its faculty, Harold Bloom. I've never gotten over the fact that he disdained the Harry Potter books as they were being published, and threw deep shade on J.K. Rowling as an author. But still, in his other views, he's heralded as the best literary critic of our time. And he sees Emerson as the source of much great American literature.
In a new book, The Daemon Knows, Bloom says:
For me, Emerson is the fountain of the American will to know the self and its drive for sublimity. The American poets who (to me) matter most are all Emersonians of one kind or another: Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Edwin Arlington Robinson, Robert Frost, Wallace Stevens, Hart Crane, John Ashbery, A. R. Ammons, Elizabeth Bishop, May Swenson, Henri Cole. Our greatest creators of prose fiction were not Emersonians, yet the protagonists of Hawthorne, Melville and Henry James frequently are beyond our understanding if we do not see Hester Prynne, Captain Ahab and Isabel Archer as self-reliant questers.
Emerson brought America a perspective we needed, and still benefit from having and applying well. It's no surprise to me that my father, a high school graduate, had a copy of Emerson's famous essay Self Reliance all marked up with agreements and underlinings. Philosophy of the right sort can reach us all, where we live. And it should.
There is perhaps no insight of philosophy more important than this.
In all my years of teaching, I had just one student get really mad at me. We were two weeks into a month-long daily seminar on "Faith, Reason, and The Meaning of Life." The National Endowment for the Humanities had brought together a group of amazing teachers from around the country, remarkable individuals who taught in grades K-12, for a summer enrichment program. I was the sole professor. And I was pretty young, in my early thirties. The seminar itself, after eight years of teaching and learning, eventually became the book Making Sense of It All.
The student, an experienced teacher, was irate. His wonderful, fairy-tale, story-book marriage had just come to an end, days before he was to travel to South Bend for my seminar. His wife had left him a message on the kitchen table that she was gone and would not be coming back. Their life together was over. He was stunned, and crushed, and in emotional free-fall. He was desperate to find some sort of meaning and how to make sense of this shock, and of life itself, amidst the craziness, the disappointment, the despair, and the unexpected suffering that can assail us in this world. We had been reading and talking for two weeks, and he was at the end of his rope. He wanted to know the meaning of life, and he wanted to know it right then. That day. No more delay, no more waiting. Why did we keep beating around the bush? We'd been reading stuff and philosophizing for hours at the time, and there was no clear answer!
I went by his dorm room and talked with him for two hours. I quickly came to realize that he was suffering under an assumption that a lot of us naturally make.
He was assuming that the deepest secret for living in this world, the most profound insight, the key to a meaningful, happy, fulfilling life, can somehow be captured in the content of a sentence, or statement, or proposition. And he thought that I was stubbornly refusing to utter that statement, choosing instead to tease the class with roundabout hints and elusive suggestions, but never saying the one thing that most needed to be said.
I had to challenge him and ask him how he knew that what he was searching for could be said at all. What gave him to believe that there were some magic words that would change everything in an instant?
Now, admittedly, this was years before I wrote a book called If Aristotle Ran General Motors, and in a chapter on "Business and the Meaning of Life," I did actually manage to convey what I consider to be the single deepest truth that can be stated on this issue, a truth I had to discover for myself, from hints and clues spread throughout the wisdom traditions of the world. So, in that book, and in the subsequent big yellow tome, Philosophy for Dummies, I did write a sentence providing what I think is the one and only definitive answer to the question "What Is the Meaning of Life?" And I've had people tell me that it's the most important sentence they've ever read, which makes me glad. But even then, once it was said, once the crucial statement on life's meaning was communicated, there was still something else, something crucial that, perhaps, cannot be said, and that, it seems, may be even more important.
The deepest secret may not be a statement, or a proposition, at all.
Wait. What?
There is an inevitable elusiveness to enlightenment, to salvation, to the ultimate mindset of transformed wisdom. In a book I just read for the third time this week and twice already wrote about here, Siddhartha, the title character comes to exactly the realization that, maybe, the most important and deepest secret to living well in this world can never be said or taught in simple declarative statements. He meets Gautama the Buddha, and says to him:
I think, O Illustrious One, that nobody finds salvation through teachings. To nobody, O Illustrious One, can you communicate in words and teachings what happened to you in your enlightenment.
He admires greatly the message that the Buddha is conveying in his words, as he teaches his disciples, and yet says this about it, as a whole teaching:
But there is one thing that this clear, worthy instruction does not contain; it does not contain the secret of what the Illustrious One experienced - he alone among hundreds of thousands.
The deepest secret is perhaps too big, and deep, and transformative to be caught like a bird and caged up into language, into words. But it can be discovered. It can be encountered. One who has experienced it can introduce it, in a way, to another. And then, it can do its work.
Even Plato, writing in his Seventh Letter, says about his own deepest wisdom that:
It is not something that can be put into words like other branches of learning; only after long partnership in a common life devoted to this very thing does truth flash upon the soul, like a flame kindled by a leaping spark, and once it is born there it nourishes itself thereafter.
In the third chapter of the Gospel of John, Jesus tries to explain to the scholar Nicodemus that, in the case of our Ultimate Quest, the name of the game is not discovering the right true sentences, but undergoing a radical transformation. Siddhartha's own eventual Guide to understanding and metamorphosis, the simple ferryman Vasudeva, basically has to help his new friend see that there is no shortcut to the deepest secret. We each have to make our mistakes, commit sins and errors, take wrong paths, try things that don't seem to help, live through adventures, and maybe, as a result of being in the right frame of mind at the right time, the light from the most elusive flame will be sparked in us. There will be a dawn. We'll then see anew. But this will happen, in some sense, and in every case, beyond words.
And that's what all the mystics have been trying to tell us, with many words, for a very long time.
Oh, and my one angry man, my irate student: He calmed down as a result of our many words together and my efforts to push him that day beyond words. He seemed to understand. I couldn't be blamed for not doing the impossible. And yet. And yet.
I know now more than I did then. And I could have been more helpful, I think, if I had lived through and learned all that I've subsequently lived through and learned, but, as Plato says, not like in other branches of learning. This tree grows in a distinctive way. And perhaps it speaks its deepest secrets almost as faintly as as the sound of a light breeze blowing through its branches. And if there is a spark, that breeze may fan it into the flame that's needed to provide the light that's desired.
We live in a world where things often go wrong. In fact, you can divide all of your life into three basic kinds of time segments:
1. The time when you're waiting for something to happen, wanting it to happen, and perhaps doing all you can to make it happen,
2. The time when it either happens, and you're glad, maybe even elated, or perhaps relieved, or else,
3. The time when it was supposed to happen and didn't, and you're either sad, or mad, discouraged, or even worse.
In the book by Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha, published in 1922, which I wrote about yesterday, there's one very interesting story. The young man Siddhartha is working for a very successful and wealthy businessman. The rich man is always worried about something, or angry when anything doesn't go right. Siddhartha is never worried or angry. He treats business like a sport to play, and in a very pure way, where he simply enjoys the playing, without any concern about who wins or loses. And because of his attitude, he wins much more often than he loses.
One day, he makes a trip to a distant town where he's hoping to purchase a crop that he and his partner can then resell for a major profit. But when he arrives at the town, he learns the deal has already been made, with someone else. Rather than reacting with sadness, anger, frustration, irritation, regret, resentment, concern or worry, fuming that he's wasted all the time and energy of travel for nothing, he quickly turns nothing into something. He meets the people of the town and gets to know them. He visits with them, eats with them, and plays with their children. He has a wonderful time making new friends with those who will probably now very much want to do business with him in the future. His older partner wouldn't likely have done any of this, but would typically have stormed off in a huff, furious that he'd missed the great opportunity he'd pursued.
A CEO once told me that it's his job to worry. And from what I could see, he does it very well. But is that really a mission critical job? What does his worry accomplish that simple planning, checking, and exercising vigilant care couldn't do? I can't see how the worry, the tension of anxiety, adds anything to the mix of productive endeavor. Most negative emotions, in most situations, are the same. Our hero, Siddhartha, by not worrying or allowing any negative emotions to overtake him, was easily able to turn nothing into something. He showed how we can all be opportunistic in a very positive way, at those times when things initially don't seem to go our way, and, in fact, in almost any situation in which we find ourselves. We can deal positively and creatively with whatever happens, and make the best of it.
And I can't think of anything better than that.
I think I first read Siddhartha, the little classic novel by Hermann Hesse, in college, in the early seventies. I read it again in 1998. Then again this week. It's the story of a well born boy in India who is handsome, highly intelligent, well liked, and by all appearances effortlessly successful in everything he does. But he's not happy inside. Despite what seems to be an easy path of Brahmin life, through study and eventually a sort of priestly vocation, Siddhartha decides to renounce all his privileges and go into the forest as a Samana, or beggar. The idea is to minimize the physical in order to get in touch with the spiritual and find both meaning and happiness. His best friend Govinda joins him. They go in search of spiritual teachings that will bring them meaning, purpose and fulfillment, and continue on this path for three years. But they don't find what they're looking for.
And then they hear of a great teacher, the Buddha, who has broken free of all illusion and has attained the goal of true wisdom and happiness. They go to meet him. He shows inner peace in everything he does. His words are attractive. Govinda wants to become one of his followers. Siddhartha can't. He is immensely impressed with the Buddha but senses somehow that what he needs is not more teaching, or more words, from anyone, but a different path, one that's distinctively his.
The childhood friends part company. Siddhartha moves on, and comes to a town where he sees Kamala, a stunningly beautiful young woman and richly attired courtesan who, as a profession, teaches the art of love. He ardently wants to be her student. But she's unwilling to practice her art with a dirty, ragged beggar. She will see him only if he wears beautiful clothes and shoes, and is bathed and perfumed, with his hair fixed in the way of the wealthy. He then quickly attains these things as effortlessly as he's gained anything in the world that he's ever set as a goal - other than, of course, enlightenment, which alone seems to have eluded him. And he becomes Kamala's best student ever. He learns to play at love as an artist. And in order to continue with her, he learns also to play at business, as another art, or nearly a sport. He flourishes in all outward ways. But he's still not happy at his core. He grows to love Kamala but to hate what he's become in order to win her.
One day, Siddhartha leaves again for the forest. But this time, he's so distraught over what he's become in his pursuit of wealth and worldly pleasure that he feels suicidal. He meets a ferryman at a wide river and, to his great surprise, this man becomes the person who leads him to the enlightenment he has always sought, but who does so more with actions than with words. The ferryman isn't a teacher or preacher so much as a listener. And because of this he shows Siddhartha how to listen - at first to the river, and then to any living thing, and to hear and see and find within the nature and people around him the universal pattern and unity of all things that has otherwise eluded him.
In the Bhagavad Gita, a charioteer is the source of wisdom and enlightenment. In The Legend of Bagger Vance, it's a golf caddy. In this story, it's a river ferryman. All are servants. All are people who help others to move toward their goals. And in all three stories, the simple servant is the source of enlightenment. Because a good servant listens, he can then speak in such a way as to direct the seeker toward his goal. And that's a lesson worth pondering for those among us who want to help others accomplish the right things in their lives.
Siddhartha is a book you can read multiple times, a short tale of 122 pages in the old edition I own. And it's provocative. You won't agree with everything in it, but it can stimulate your own thoughts about life and love, work and wealth, meaning, purpose, and happiness.
We all have priorities. We value some things over others. We prefer certain activities to alternatives. And yet, we're not always aware of our priorities. Twentieth century theologian Paul Tillich suggested that everyone has what he called an "Ultimate Concern" - a priority that trumps all others, a most important thing in your life. For some people, it might be life itself. For others, love, or family. For too many, it seems to be money, or power, or status.
The ancient stoic philosophers believed that our chief concern should be to know what is properly our ultimate good. Then we can take care to govern our lives accordingly, not letting our priorities get out of order, but giving the most time and attention to what's most important, and the least to the least. The fake urgencies of life often cause us to get this backwards, giving our focus to ephemeral things that are actually of little value, and letting them crowd out the things that are of greatest meaning and significance.
You've heard the old story, of the rocks and the jar, I'd imagine. A professor has a very large glass jar on a table in front of the class. He tells his students that he's going to fill it with rocks, and he does. "Is it full?" he asks. They all agree. It's full to the top. Then he produces a bucket of pebbles and begins to pour them in around the rocks, filling it even more. "You see, it wasn't actually full before," he explains as they all contemplate the much more packed container. Then he produces a bucket of sand and starts to pour it also into the jar, filling in all the cracks and spaces between the rocks and pebbles.
The professor explains that the jar is like a life. If he had started out filling it up with the little things, the grains of sand, and had packed it to the top that way, there would have been no room for the bigger pebbles, or the much larger rocks. But by filling it with the biggest things first, there was also ample room for the smaller things. He then explained the metaphor explicitly. If we allow the little urgencies and demands of life to fill our time and hearts, we'll have no space left over for the bigger things. But if we start of with a focus on what matters most, we'll also have plenty of room for life's smaller matters. It's all about priorities.
And then, there is, of course, the variant of the story where an enterprising student suddenly stands up, walks up to the desk, pops the top of a beer can he's carrying, and slowly pours it into the apparently full jar, explaining as he does, one more insight: "There's always room for Bud."
How are you with priorities? They matter in a business just like they do in a life. Get them wrong, and all sorts of things go wrong as well. Get them right, and many other things go right, things worth celebrating. Then, there's room for a Bud.
