Preface to This Edition

This preface, though placed at the beginning, as a preface must be, should be read at the end of the book.

This preface comes at the beginning, as a preface must. But you should read it at the end of the book.

I have received a large amount of correspondence concerning this small work, and many reviews of it—some of them nearly as long as the book itself—have been printed. But scarcely any of the comment has been adverse. Some people have objected to a frivolity of tone; but as the tone is not, in my opinion, at all frivolous, this objection did not impress me; and had no weightier reproach been put forward I might almost have been persuaded that the volume was flawless! A more serious stricture has, however, been offered—not in the press, but by sundry obviously sincere correspondents—and I must deal with it. A reference to page 43 will show that I anticipated and feared this disapprobation. The sentence against which protests have been made is as follows:—"In the majority of instances he [the typical man] does not precisely feel a passion for his business; at best he does not dislike it. He begins his business functions with some reluctance, as late as he can, and he ends them with joy, as early as he can. And his engines, while he is engaged in his business, are seldom at their full 'h.p.'"

I have received a great deal of correspondence about this little book. Many reviews have also appeared, some nearly as long as the book itself. But hardly any of the comments have been negative. Some people have objected to what they see as a frivolous tone. But in my opinion, the tone is not frivolous at all, so their objection did not impress me. If no more serious criticism had been raised, I might almost have been persuaded that the book was flawless! A more serious criticism has, however, been made. It came not from the press, but from several clearly sincere correspondents, and I must address it. Page 43 shows that I expected and feared this disapproval. The passage people have protested against is as follows: "In most cases, he [the typical man] does not exactly feel passionate about his business. At best, he does not dislike it. He begins his work with some reluctance, as late as he can, and ends it with joy, as early as he can. And while he is working, his engines are seldom running at full horsepower."

I am assured, in accents of unmistakable sincerity, that there are many business men—not merely those in high positions or with fine prospects, but modest subordinates with no hope of ever being much better off—who do enjoy their business functions, who do not shirk them, who do not arrive at the office as late as possible and depart as early as possible, who, in a word, put the whole of their force into their day's work and are genuinely fatigued at the end thereof.

I am assured, quite sincerely, that many businessmen enjoy their work. These are not just men in high positions or with good prospects. They also include modest subordinates with no hope of ever being much better off. They do not avoid their duties or arrive at the office as late as possible and leave as early as possible. In short, they put all their energy into their work and are genuinely tired at the end of the day.

I am ready to believe it. I do believe it. I know it. I always knew it. Both in London and in the provinces it has been my lot to spend long years in subordinate situations of business; and the fact did not escape me that a certain proportion of my peers showed what amounted to an honest passion for their duties, and that while engaged in those duties they were really living to the fullest extent of which they were capable. But I remain convinced that these fortunate and happy individuals (happier perhaps than they guessed) did not and do not constitute a majority, or anything like a majority. I remain convinced that the majority of decent average conscientious men of business (men with aspirations and ideals) do not as a rule go home of a night genuinely tired. I remain convinced that they put not as much but as little of themselves as they conscientiously can into the earning of a livelihood, and that their vocation bores rather than interests them.

I am ready to believe it. I do believe it. I know it. I always knew it. In both London and the provinces, I spent many years in junior business positions. I noticed that some of my colleagues had a genuine passion for their work. While doing it, they were truly living as fully as they could. But I remain convinced that these fortunate, happy people did not and do not make up a majority. They are not even close to a majority. Perhaps they were happier than they realized. I remain convinced that most decent, average, conscientious businessmen, men with aspirations and ideals, do not usually go home genuinely tired at night. I remain convinced that they put as little of themselves as their consciences allow into earning a living. Their work bores them rather than interests them.

Nevertheless, I admit that the minority is of sufficient importance to merit attention, and that I ought not to have ignored it so completely as I did do. The whole difficulty of the hard-working minority was put in a single colloquial sentence by one of my correspondents. He wrote: "I am just as keen as anyone on doing something to 'exceed my programme,' but allow me to tell you that when I get home at six thirty p.m. I am not anything like so fresh as you seem to imagine."

Nevertheless, I admit that this minority is important enough to deserve attention. I should not have ignored it as completely as I did. One of my correspondents summed up the whole difficulty facing this hard-working minority in a single, conversational sentence. He wrote: "I am just as keen as anyone on doing something to 'exceed my programme,' but let me tell you that when I get home at 6:30 p.m., I am nowhere near as fresh as you seem to think."

Now I must point out that the case of the minority, who throw themselves with passion and gusto into their daily business task, is infinitely less deplorable than the case of the majority, who go half-heartedly and feebly through their official day. The former are less in need of advice "how to live." At any rate during their official day of, say, eight hours they are really alive; their engines are giving the full indicated "h.p." The other eight working hours of their day may be badly organised, or even frittered away; but it is less disastrous to waste eight hours a day than sixteen hours a day; it is better to have lived a bit than never to have lived at all. The real tragedy is the tragedy of the man who is braced to effort neither in the office nor out of it, and to this man this book is primarily addressed. "But," says the other and more fortunate man, "although my ordinary programme is bigger than his, I want to exceed my programme too! I am living a bit; I want to live more. But I really can't do another day's work on the top of my official day."

I must point out that a minority of people throw themselves into their daily work with passion and enthusiasm. Their situation is infinitely less regrettable than that of the majority, who go through their workday half-heartedly and feebly. The passionate minority are less in need of advice on "how to live." During their workday of, say, eight hours, they are truly alive. Their engines are running at full rated horsepower. The other eight working hours of their day may be badly organized or even wasted. But wasting eight hours a day is less disastrous than wasting sixteen. It is better to have lived a little than never to have lived at all. The real tragedy is the man who makes no effort either at the office or outside it. This book is mainly addressed to him. "But," says the other, more fortunate man, "although I already do more than he does, I want to do more too! I am living a little, but I want to live more. Still, I really can't do another day's work on top of my regular workday."

The fact is, I, the author, ought to have foreseen that I should appeal most strongly to those who already had an interest in existence. It is always the man who has tasted life who demands more of it. And it is always the man who never gets out of bed who is the most difficult to rouse.

The truth is, I, the author, should have expected to appeal most to people who were already interested in life. It is always the man who has tasted life who wants more of it. And it is always the man who never gets out of bed who is hardest to wake.

Well, you of the minority, let us assume that the intensity of your daily money-getting will not allow you to carry out quite all the suggestions in the following pages. Some of the suggestions may yet stand. I admit that you may not be able to use the time spent on the journey home at night; but the suggestion for the journey to the office in the morning is as practicable for you as for anybody. And that weekly interval of forty hours, from Saturday to Monday, is yours just as much as the other man's, though a slight accumulation of fatigue may prevent you from employing the whole of your "h.p." upon it. There remains, then, the important portion of the three or more evenings a week. You tell me flatly that you are too tired to do anything outside your programme at night. In reply to which I tell you flatly that if your ordinary day's work is thus exhausting, then the balance of your life is wrong and must be adjusted. A man's powers ought not to be monopolised by his ordinary day's work. What, then, is to be done?

Well, if you are in the minority, let us assume that earning your daily living takes intense effort. As a result, you cannot follow quite all the suggestions in the following pages. Some suggestions may still apply. I admit that you may not be able to use your journey home at night. But the suggestion for your morning journey to the office is as practical for you as for anyone else. And the forty hours from Saturday to Monday are just as much yours as anyone else’s. You may be a little tired, though, and unable to put all your "h.p." into that time. That leaves the important question of three or more evenings a week. You tell me flatly that you are too tired at night to do anything outside your usual routine. I reply just as flatly: if your ordinary workday is that exhausting, your life is out of balance. You must adjust it. A man’s ordinary workday should not use up all his powers. What, then, is to be done?

The obvious thing to do is to circumvent your ardour for your ordinary day's work by a ruse. Employ your engines in something beyond the programme before, and not after, you employ them on the programme itself. Briefly, get up earlier in the morning. You say you cannot. You say it is impossible for you to go earlier to bed of a night—to do so would upset the entire household. I do not think it is quite impossible to go to bed earlier at night. I think that if you persist in rising earlier, and the consequence is insufficiency of sleep, you will soon find a way of going to bed earlier. But my impression is that the consequences of rising earlier will not be an insufficiency of sleep. My impression, growing stronger every year, is that sleep is partly a matter of habit—and of slackness. I am convinced that most people sleep as long as they do because they are at a loss for any other diversion. How much sleep do you think is daily obtained by the powerful healthy man who daily rattles up your street in charge of Carter Patterson's van? I have consulted a doctor on this point. He is a doctor who for twenty-four years has had a large general practice in a large flourishing suburb of London, inhabited by exactly such people as you and me. He is a curt man, and his answer was curt:

The obvious solution is to outwit your enthusiasm for your ordinary day's work. Put your energy into something outside your usual schedule before you tackle the schedule itself, not afterward. In short, get up earlier in the morning. You say you cannot. You say going to bed earlier is impossible because it would disrupt the entire household. I do not think going to bed earlier is quite impossible. If you keep getting up earlier and lose sleep as a result, I think you will soon find a way to go to bed earlier. But I doubt that getting up earlier will leave you short of sleep. Each year, I become more convinced that sleep is partly a matter of habit and laziness. I am convinced that most people sleep as long as they do because they cannot think of anything else to do. How much sleep do you think the strong, healthy man gets each day? The one who drives the Carter Patterson van noisily up your street every day? I asked a doctor about this. For twenty-four years, he has had a large general practice in a prosperous London suburb. Its residents are exactly like you and me. He is a blunt man, and his answer was blunt:

"Most people sleep themselves stupid."

"Most people sleep so much that they make themselves stupid."

He went on to give his opinion that nine men out of ten would have better health and more fun out of life if they spent less time in bed.

He went on to say that nine out of ten men would be healthier and enjoy life more if they spent less time in bed.

Other doctors have confirmed this judgment, which, of course, does not apply to growing youths.

Other doctors have confirmed this judgment. Of course, it does not apply to young people who are still growing.

Rise an hour, an hour and a half, or even two hours earlier; and—if you must—retire earlier when you can. In the matter of exceeding programmes, you will accomplish as much in one morning hour as in two evening hours. "But," you say, "I couldn't begin without some food, and servants." Surely, my dear sir, in an age when an excellent spirit-lamp (including a saucepan) can be bought for less than a shilling, you are not going to allow your highest welfare to depend upon the precarious immediate co-operation of a fellow creature! Instruct the fellow creature, whoever she may be, at night. Tell her to put a tray in a suitable position over night. On that tray two biscuits, a cup and saucer, a box of matches and a spirit-lamp; on the lamp, the saucepan; on the saucepan, the lid—but turned the wrong way up; on the reversed lid, the small teapot, containing a minute quantity of tea leaves. You will then have to strike a match—that is all. In three minutes the water boils, and you pour it into the teapot (which is already warm). In three more minutes the tea is infused. You can begin your day while drinking it. These details may seem trivial to the foolish, but to the thoughtful they will not seem trivial. The proper, wise balancing of one's whole life may depend upon the feasibility of a cup of tea at an unusual hour.

Get up an hour, an hour and a half, or even two hours earlier. And, if you must, go to bed earlier when you can. When it comes to doing more than you planned, you can accomplish as much in one morning hour as in two evening hours. "But," you say, "I couldn't begin without some food and servants." Surely, my dear sir, you can buy an excellent spirit lamp with a saucepan for less than a shilling. Are you really going to let your highest welfare depend on another person's unreliable cooperation at a moment's notice? Give the servant her instructions at night, whoever she may be. Tell her to put a tray in a suitable place before bed. On the tray, she should put two biscuits, a cup and saucer, a box of matches, and a spirit lamp. On the lamp, she should put the saucepan, with its lid upside down. On the upside-down lid, she should put the small teapot, containing a tiny amount of tea leaves. Then all you have to do is strike a match. In three minutes, the water boils, and you pour it into the teapot, which is already warm. In three more minutes, the tea is ready. You can begin your day while drinking it. These details may seem trivial to foolish people, but they will not seem trivial to thoughtful people. The proper, wise balance of your whole life may depend on whether you can have a cup of tea at an unusual hour.

A. B.

A. B.