The Desire to Do More Than Planned

"But," someone may remark, with the English disregard of everything except the point, "what is he driving at with his twenty-four hours a day? I have no difficulty in living on twenty-four hours a day. I do all that I want to do, and still find time to go in for newspaper competitions. Surely it is a simple affair, knowing that one has only twenty-four hours a day, to content one's self with twenty-four hours a day!"

"But," someone may say, showing the English habit of ignoring everything except the point, "what is he getting at with his twenty-four hours a day? I have no trouble living on twenty-four hours a day. I do everything I want to do and still find time to enter newspaper competitions. Surely, if you know you have only twenty-four hours a day, it's simple enough to be content with that!"

To you, my dear sir, I present my excuses and apologies. You are precisely the man that I have been wishing to meet for about forty years. Will you kindly send me your name and address, and state your charge for telling me how you do it? Instead of me talking to you, you ought to be talking to me. Please come forward. That you exist, I am convinced, and that I have not yet encountered you is my loss. Meanwhile, until you appear, I will continue to chat with my companions in distress—that innumerable band of souls who are haunted, more or less painfully, by the feeling that the years slip by, and slip by, and slip by, and that they have not yet been able to get their lives into proper working order.

My dear sir, I offer you my apologies. You are exactly the man I have been hoping to meet for about forty years. Please send me your name and address, and tell me what you charge to explain how you do it. You should be talking to me, not the other way around. Please come forward. I am convinced that you exist, and it is my loss that I have not yet met you. Meanwhile, until you appear, I will continue to chat with my companions in distress. They are the countless people haunted, more or less painfully, by the feeling that the years keep slipping by. Yet they have still not managed to get their lives in proper working order.

If we analyse that feeling, we shall perceive it to be, primarily, one of uneasiness, of expectation, of looking forward, of aspiration. It is a source of constant discomfort, for it behaves like a skeleton at the feast of all our enjoyments. We go to the theatre and laugh; but between the acts it raises a skinny finger at us. We rush violently for the last train, and while we are cooling a long age on the platform waiting for the last train, it promenades its bones up and down by our side and inquires: "O man, what hast thou done with thy youth? What art thou doing with thine age?" You may urge that this feeling of continuous looking forward, of aspiration, is part of life itself, and inseparable from life itself. True!

If we examine that feeling, we see that it is mainly a feeling of uneasiness, expectation, anticipation, and aspiration. It causes constant discomfort, like a skeleton at the feast of all our pleasures. We go to the theater and laugh, but between acts it raises a skinny finger at us. We rush frantically to catch the last train. Then, while we wait on the platform for what seems like ages, it paces beside us, rattling its bones. It asks: "Man, what have you done with your youth? What are you doing with your old age?" You may argue that this constant anticipation and aspiration is part of life itself and cannot be separated from it. True!

But there are degrees. A man may desire to go to Mecca. His conscience tells him that he ought to go to Mecca. He fares forth, either by the aid of Cook's, or unassisted; he may probably never reach Mecca; he may drown before he gets to Port Said; he may perish ingloriously on the coast of the Red Sea; his desire may remain eternally frustrate. Unfulfilled aspiration may always trouble him. But he will not be tormented in the same way as the man who, desiring to reach Mecca, and harried by the desire to reach Mecca, never leaves Brixton.

But there are degrees. A man may want to go to Mecca. His conscience tells him he ought to go. He sets out, either with the help of Cook's or on his own. He may never reach Mecca. He may drown before he gets to Port Said. He may die ingloriously on the coast of the Red Sea. His desire may remain unfulfilled forever. His failure to reach Mecca may always trouble him. But he will not be tormented in the same way as the man who wants to reach Mecca but never leaves Brixton. That man is also troubled by his desire to go.

It is something to have left Brixton. Most of us have not left Brixton. We have not even taken a cab to Ludgate Circus and inquired from Cook's the price of a conducted tour. And our excuse to ourselves is that there are only twenty-four hours in the day.

Leaving Brixton is an achievement. Most of us have not left Brixton. We have not even taken a taxi to Ludgate Circus to ask Cook's about the price of a guided tour. Our excuse is that there are only twenty-four hours in a day.

If we further analyse our vague, uneasy aspiration, we shall, I think, see that it springs from a fixed idea that we ought to do something in addition to those things which we are loyally and morally obliged to do. We are obliged, by various codes written and unwritten, to maintain ourselves and our families (if any) in health and comfort, to pay our debts, to save, to increase our prosperity by increasing our efficiency. A task sufficiently difficult! A task which very few of us achieve! A task often beyond our skill! Yet, if we succeed in it, as we sometimes do, we are not satisfied; the skeleton is still with us.

If we look more closely at our vague, uneasy desire, I think we will see where it comes from. We have a fixed idea that we should do something beyond what duty and morality require of us. Written and unwritten rules require us to keep ourselves and our families, if we have them, healthy and comfortable. We must also pay our debts, save, and become more prosperous by becoming more efficient. That is a difficult enough task! Very few of us achieve it! It is often beyond our abilities! Yet even when we succeed, as we sometimes do, we are not satisfied. The skeleton is still with us.

And even when we realise that the task is beyond our skill, that our powers cannot cope with it, we feel that we should be less discontented if we gave to our powers, already overtaxed, something still further to do.

Even when we realize that the task is beyond our abilities, we feel we should be less dissatisfied if we gave ourselves still more to do, though we are already overtaxed.

And such is, indeed, the fact. The wish to accomplish something outside their formal programme is common to all men who in the course of evolution have risen past a certain level.

And that is indeed the case. All men who have evolved beyond a certain level want to accomplish something outside their regular routine.

Until an effort is made to satisfy that wish, the sense of uneasy waiting for something to start which has not started will remain to disturb the peace of the soul. That wish has been called by many names. It is one form of the universal desire for knowledge. And it is so strong that men whose whole lives have been given to the systematic acquirement of knowledge have been driven by it to overstep the limits of their programme in search of still more knowledge. Even Herbert Spencer, in my opinion the greatest mind that ever lived, was often forced by it into agreeable little backwaters of inquiry.

Until you try to satisfy that wish, you will feel uneasy, waiting for something to begin that has not yet begun. That feeling will continue to disturb your peace of mind. The wish has been called by many names. It is one form of the universal desire for knowledge. The desire is very strong. It has driven men who devoted their whole lives to the systematic pursuit of knowledge beyond their planned studies. They have gone in search of still more knowledge. Even Herbert Spencer was often driven by it into pleasant little side paths of inquiry. In my opinion, he was the greatest mind that ever lived.

I imagine that in the majority of people who are conscious of the wish to live—that is to say, people who have intellectual curiosity—the aspiration to exceed formal programmes takes a literary shape. They would like to embark on a course of reading. Decidedly the British people are becoming more and more literary. But I would point out that literature by no means comprises the whole field of knowledge, and that the disturbing thirst to improve one's self—to increase one's knowledge—may well be slaked quite apart from literature. With the various ways of slaking I shall deal later. Here I merely point out to those who have no natural sympathy with literature that literature is not the only well.

I imagine that most people who feel a desire to live, meaning those with intellectual curiosity, express it through literature. They would like to begin a course of reading. The British people are certainly becoming more and more interested in literature. But literature is by no means the whole field of knowledge. The restless thirst to improve oneself and increase one's knowledge can be satisfied without literature. I will discuss the various ways to satisfy that thirst later. For now, I simply point out to those with no natural interest in literature that it is not the only well.