Dangers to Avoid

I cannot terminate these hints, often, I fear, too didactic and abrupt, upon the full use of one's time to the great end of living (as distinguished from vegetating) without briefly referring to certain dangers which lie in wait for the sincere aspirant towards life. The first is the terrible danger of becoming that most odious and least supportable of persons—a prig. Now a prig is a pert fellow who gives himself airs of superior wisdom. A prig is a pompous fool who has gone out for a ceremonial walk, and without knowing it has lost an important part of his attire, namely, his sense of humour. A prig is a tedious individual who, having made a discovery, is so impressed by his discovery that he is capable of being gravely displeased because the entire world is not also impressed by it. Unconsciously to become a prig is an easy and a fatal thing.

I cannot end these hints on using our time fully for the great purpose of living, rather than merely existing, without briefly mentioning certain dangers. I fear my hints have often been too instructive and abrupt. The dangers await those who sincerely aspire to live. The first is the terrible danger of becoming a prig, the most hateful and unbearable kind of person. A prig is a cocky fellow who pretends to be wiser than everyone else. A prig is a pompous fool who has gone out for a grand ceremonial walk. Without knowing it, he has lost an important part of his outfit: his sense of humor. A prig is a tedious person who has made a discovery. He is so impressed by it that he can be seriously annoyed because the whole world is not impressed too. It is easy and fatal to become a prig without realizing it.

Hence, when one sets forth on the enterprise of using all one's time, it is just as well to remember that one's own time, and not other people's time, is the material with which one has to deal; that the earth rolled on pretty comfortably before one began to balance a budget of the hours, and that it will continue to roll on pretty comfortably whether or not one succeeds in one's new role of chancellor of the exchequer of time. It is as well not to chatter too much about what one is doing, and not to betray a too-pained sadness at the spectacle of a whole world deliberately wasting so many hours out of every day, and therefore never really living. It will be found, ultimately, that in taking care of one's self one has quite all one can do.

So, when you set out to use all your time, remember that you are dealing with your own time, not other people's. The earth rolled along quite comfortably before you began budgeting your hours. It will continue to do so, whether or not you succeed in your new role as finance minister of time. It's best not to talk too much about what you're doing. And try not to look too painfully sad at the sight of a whole world deliberately wasting so many hours each day, and therefore never really living. In the end, you'll find that taking care of yourself is quite enough to keep you busy.

Another danger is the danger of being tied to a programme like a slave to a chariot. One's programme must not be allowed to run away with one. It must be respected, but it must not be worshipped as a fetish. A programme of daily employ is not a religion.

Another danger is becoming tied to a schedule like a slave to a chariot. Do not let your schedule take control of you. Respect it, but do not worship it as a fetish. A daily schedule is not a religion.

This seems obvious. Yet I know men whose lives are a burden to themselves and a distressing burden to their relatives and friends simply because they have failed to appreciate the obvious. "Oh, no," I have heard the martyred wife exclaim, "Arthur always takes the dog out for exercise at eight o'clock and he always begins to read at a quarter to nine. So it's quite out of the question that we should..." etc., etc. And the note of absolute finality in that plaintive voice reveals the unsuspected and ridiculous tragedy of a career.

This seems obvious. Yet I know men whose lives are a burden to themselves and a distressing burden to their relatives and friends. This is simply because they have failed to recognize the obvious. I have heard the long-suffering wife exclaim, "Oh, no, Arthur always takes the dog out for exercise at eight o'clock. And he always starts reading at a quarter to nine. So there's no question of us..." and so on. The absolute finality in that plaintive voice reveals the unsuspected and ridiculous tragedy of a life.

On the other hand, a programme is a programme. And unless it is treated with deference it ceases to be anything but a poor joke. To treat one's programme with exactly the right amount of deference, to live with not too much and not too little elasticity, is scarcely the simple affair it may appear to the inexperienced.

On the other hand, a plan is a plan. Unless you treat it with respect, it becomes nothing more than a poor joke. Giving your plan just the right amount of respect means being neither too rigid nor too flexible. That is hardly as simple as it may seem to someone with no experience.

And still another danger is the danger of developing a policy of rush, of being gradually more and more obsessed by what one has to do next. In this way one may come to exist as in a prison, and one's life may cease to be one's own. One may take the dog out for a walk at eight o'clock, and meditate the whole time on the fact that one must begin to read at a quarter to nine, and that one must not be late.

Another danger is falling into a habit of rushing and becoming more and more obsessed with what you have to do next. In this way, you may come to live as if you were in prison, and your life may cease to be your own. You may take the dog for a walk at eight o'clock and spend the whole time thinking about the reading you must begin at 8:45. You must not be late.

And the occasional deliberate breaking of one's programme will not help to mend matters. The evil springs not from persisting without elasticity in what one has attempted, but from originally attempting too much, from filling one's programme till it runs over. The only cure is to reconstitute the programme, and to attempt less.

And deliberately breaking your schedule now and then will not help. The problem is not that you stick too rigidly to what you have planned. It is that you tried to do too much in the first place, cramming too much into your schedule. The only cure is to revise your schedule and attempt less.

But the appetite for knowledge grows by what it feeds on, and there are men who come to like a constant breathless hurry of endeavour. Of them it may be said that a constant breathless hurry is better than an eternal doze.

But the more knowledge men gain, the more they want. Some men come to enjoy a constant, breathless rush of effort. Of them, one may say that a constant, breathless rush is better than an endless doze.

In any case, if the programme exhibits a tendency to be oppressive, and yet one wishes not to modify it, an excellent palliative is to pass with exaggerated deliberation from one portion of it to another; for example, to spend five minutes in perfect mental quiescence between chaining up the St. Bernard and opening the book; in other words, to waste five minutes with the entire consciousness of wasting them.

In any case, if your schedule starts to feel oppressive but you don't want to change it, try this excellent remedy. Move from one part of the schedule to the next with exaggerated deliberation. For example, spend five minutes with your mind completely at rest between chaining up the St. Bernard and opening the book. In other words, waste five minutes while being fully aware that you are wasting them.

The last, and chiefest danger which I would indicate, is one to which I have already referred—the risk of a failure at the commencement of the enterprise.

The last and greatest danger is one I have already mentioned: the risk of failure at the start of the undertaking.

I must insist on it.

I must insist on it.

A failure at the commencement may easily kill outright the newborn impulse towards a complete vitality, and therefore every precaution should be observed to avoid it. The impulse must not be over-taxed. Let the pace of the first lap be even absurdly slow, but let it be as regular as possible.

A failure at the start may easily kill the new impulse to live fully. So take every precaution to avoid failure. Do not put too much strain on the impulse. Let the pace of the first lap be even absurdly slow, but keep it as steady as possible.

And, having once decided to achieve a certain task, achieve it at all costs of tedium and distaste. The gain in self-confidence of having accomplished a tiresome labour is immense.

Once you decide to complete a task, do it no matter how tedious or unpleasant you find it. Completing a tiresome task gives you an immense boost in self-confidence.

Finally, in choosing the first occupations of those evening hours, be guided by nothing whatever but your taste and natural inclination.

Finally, when choosing your first evening activities, follow only your own tastes and natural inclinations.

It is a fine thing to be a walking encyclopaedia of philosophy, but if you happen to have no liking for philosophy, and to have a like for the natural history of street-cries, much better leave philosophy alone, and take to street-cries.

It is a fine thing to be a walking encyclopedia of philosophy. But if you dislike philosophy and prefer the history of street cries, you are much better off leaving philosophy alone and studying street cries.