LAST WORDS ON LIFE

‘In the name of Allah,

The Most kind, The Most loving,

Nothing learned from a book is worth anything until it is used and verified in life;
only then does it begin to affect behavior and desire. It is Life that educates, and
perhaps loves more than anything else in life.

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ON YOUTH

Youth is transition from play to work, from dependence on the family to the
dependence on one’s self. It is a little anarchic and egotistic, because, in the family
it’s every whim or want was favored by unstinting parental love. Passing into the
world, youth, petted for years and, now for the first time free, drinks in the deep
delight of liberty and advances to conquer and remold the universe. Youth is as
confident and improvident as it loves excitements and adventure more than food. It
loves the superlative, the exaggerated, the limitless, because it has abounding
energy and frets to liberate its strength. It loves new and dangerous things; a man is
as young as the risk he takes. It is the age of abandon, and its motto, is Patna
again__‘’ everything in excess.’’ It is never tired; it lives in the present, regrets no
yesterdays, and dreads no morrows; it climbs buoyantly a hill whose summit
conceals the other side. It is the age of sharp sensation and unchilled desire. Every
moment is loved for itself, and the world is accepted as an esthetic spectacle,
something to be absorbed and enjoyed, something of which one may write verses,
and for which one may thank the stars.

For the majority of us it is the only period of life in which we live; most men of
forty are but reminiscence, the burnt-out ashes of what was once a flame. The
tragedy of life is that it gives us wisdom only when it has stolen youth. In Utopia,
said Thoreau, each would build his own home; and then song would come back to
the heart of man, as it comes to the bird when it builds its nest. If we cannot build
our homes; we can at least walk and throw and run; and we should never be so old
as merely to watch games instead of playing them. Let us play is as good as Let us
pray, and the results are more assured.

The first requisite of a gentleman “is to be a perfect animal.’’ On that foundation

education should rise and build; instruction in the care of body should equal the
lore of the mind. The pangs of despised love and the bitterness of truth will not
long torture a frame made and strong by sleep in the air and action in the sun.

For meanwhile puberty has come, and with it that self consciousness which is the
origin of thought, suddenly the boy has lost the readiness and unit of in deliberate
action and the pale cast of thought overshadow him. On other side the girl begins
to bedeck herself more carefully, to dishevel her hair more artfully; ten hours a day
she think of dress, and a hundred a time a day she draws her skirts down over her
knees with charming futility. The boy began to wash his neck and shine his shoes;
half his income goes to the girl, the other half to the tailor. The girl learns the
technique of blushing and the young man, in the presence of beauty, walks as if he
had stolen his legs. “Intellectual development comes step by step with the growing
consciousness of sex. Instinct gives way to thought, action slips into quiet
brooding, blossoming of poetry and imagination a thousand fancies and
magnificent ambitions flood the soul.

And at the same time that youth examines itself, it examines the world. It stretches
out numberless tentacles of questioning and theory to grasp the meaning of the
world; it asks inescapably about the evil, and origin, and evolution, and destiny,
and soul, and God. Religious “Conversion” may come now, or religious stream of
desire in the soul, and awakens a hostility that for a while might rant in revengeful
atheism.

This time the youth discovers philosophy. The full heart flowers into song and
dance; the esthetic sense is nourished with the overflow of desire; music and art are
born. Discovering the world, youth discovers evil, and is horrified to learn the
nature of his species. The principle of the family was mutual aid; but the principle
of society is competition, the struggle for existence, the elimination of the weak
and the survival of the strong. Youth, shocked, rebels, and calls upon the world to
make itself a family, and give to youth the welcome and protection and
comradeship of the home: the age of socialism comes. And then slowly youth is
drawn into the blood; acquisitiveness is aroused and stretches out both hands for
gold and power. The rebellion ends; the game goes on.

Finally, youth discovers love. It has known puppy love,” that ethereal prelude to
the coming symphonies of flesh and soul; and it has known the lonely struggles of
premature and uninformed desire. But these were only preliminaries that would
deepen the spirit and make it ready for the self-abandonment of adoration. See
them in love this boy and this girl; is there any evil this side of morality they can
balance the splendor of this good? The girl suddenly made quite and thoughtful as
the stream of life rises to conscious creation in her; the youth eager and restless,
and yet all courtesy and gentleness knowing the luxuries of courtship, aflame with
something based in the hunger of the blood and yet something that rises to a
marvelous tenderness and loyalty. Here is a fulfillment of long centuries of
civilization and culture; here, in romantic love, more than in the triumphs of
thought or the victories of power, is the topmost reach of human beings.
 ON MIDDLE AGE

And so youth marries, and youth ends. A married man is already five year older the
next day, and a married woman also, too. Biologically middle age begin with
marriage; for then work and responsibility replace carefree play, passion surrenders
to the limitations of social order, and poetry yields to prose. It is a change that
varies with custom and climates: marriage comes late now in our modern cities,
and adolescence lengthens; but among the peoples of the South and East marriage
comes at the height of youth, and age on the heels of parentage. Then each age of
life has its virtues and its defects, its tasks and its delights. As Aristotle found
excellence and wisdom in the golden mean, so the qualities of youth, maturity, and
old age may be arranged to give a fair face to the central division of human life.

YOUTH MIDDLE AGE OLD AGE

Instinct Induction Deduction
Innovation Habit Custom
Invention Execution Obstruction
Play Work Rest
Imagination Intellect Memory
Theory Knowledge Wisdom
Courage Prudence Timidity
Freedom Discipline Aughority
Art Science Religion

Such a list could be continued indefinitely, piling truisms like Pelion on Ossa. Out
of it at least this consolation emerges for middle age: That it is the age of
achievement and establishment. For the exhilaration and enthusiasm of youth, life
gives then the calm and pride of security and power, the sense of thing not merely
hoped for but accomplished.

At thirty-five a man is at the height of his curve, remaining enough of the passion
of younger years, and tempering it with the perspective of widened experience and
a more mature understanding. Perhaps there is some synchronism here with the
cycle of sex, which reaches its zenith at about thirty-two, mid way between puberty
and menopause. After forty we prefer that the world should stand still, that the
moving picture of life should freeze into a tableau. Partly the increase conservatism
of middle age is the result of wisdom, which perceives the complexity of
institutions and the imperfections of desire; but partly it is the result of lowered
energy, and corresponds to the immaculate morality of exhausted men. We
perceive at first disbelievingly and then with despair, that the reservoir of strength
no longer fills itself after we draw upon it. The discovery darken life for some
years; we begin to mourn the brevity of the human span, and the impossibility of
wisdom or fulfillment within so limited a circle; we stand at the top of the hill, and
without straining our eyes we can see, at its bottom, death. We work all the harder
to forget that it is waiting for us; we turn our eyes back in memory to the days that
were not darkened with its presence; we revel in the company of the young
because they cast over us; transiently and incompletely, their divine carelessness of
morality. Hence it is in work and parentage that middle age finds its fulfillment and
its happiness.

The commuter is the picture of middle age. He breakfasts between headlines, and
kisses his wife and children a hurried good-bye; he rushes to the station, exchange
meteorological platitudes with his duplicates along the platform, reads his paper,
walks precariously and clings like a drowning man to a subterranean strap while he
is whirled with seismic discomfort to his toil. Arrived, his Importance subsides;
instead of great decision to be made he finds, for the most part, a soporific routine
of repetitious details. He plods through them loyally, looks longingly at the clock
that keep him from his home, and thinks how pleasant it will be to spend the
evening with the family. At five he rides again in suspended animation to his train,
exchange alcoholic audacities with his duplicates, and assumes a philosophic
dignity as he contemplates the daily tragedies of the national game. At six he is
home, and at eight he wonders why he hurried so.

For by this time he has explored the depths of love, and has found the war that
lurks in its gentle guise. Familiarity and fatigue have cooled the fever in his flesh.
His wife does not dress for him, only when he has gone away and is no longer in
her mind; he sees her in a disheveled negligee, while all through the day he meets
women powdered and primped and curled, whose charming knees and inviting
frocks and encouraging smiles and aphrodisiac perfumes leave him hovering
hourly over the abysses of disloyalty. But he tries hard to love his wife and kisses
her regularly and promptly twice a day. He has an escapade or two, discovers the
dullness in adultery, thanks God that he has not been detected, and reconciles
himself to prose. For the rest he mows his lawn, plays cards and golf, and dabbles
amateurishly in local politics. The last recreation soon sours on him. In the end he
concludes that the wisest words of tongue or pen were uttered by Candide: “We
must cultivate our garden.” He plants potatoes, and achieves a moderate peace.

In the interim his wife as learned something of life, too. In the romantic years she
had been a goddess; suddenly she finds that she is a cook. The discovery is
discouraging. Why should she maintain the laborious allurements of dress and
rouge for a man who looks upon her as an economical substitute for a maid? Or
she does not cook, and does clean; these things, and many more, are done for her,
and she is left free, respectable, and functionless all the livelong day. She spends
her mornings making her toilette, and her afternoons reforming the proletariat; she
reads about hygiene and maternity, and tells poor mothers how to bring up babies,
when the harassed women merely wish to learn how to stop their coming. She
attends extension classes, organizing clubs, and listens with romantic patience to
peripatetic novelistic and philosophers.

And then suddenly, somehow, she is a mother. She is pleased and terrified.
Perhaps it will kill her to bear a child; not for a long time has she had the chance to
do the wholesome work that has fitted her physically for this fulfillment. But she is
proud, too, and feels a new maturity; she is a woman now, and not an idle girl, not
a domestic ornament or a sexual convenience anymore. She goes through her
ordeal bravely; when she sees her child she weeps for a moment and then marvels
at the child’s unprecedented beauty, she slaves for it through bust days and
fragmentary nights, never having time to look for “happiness,” and yet showing in
her eyes a new radiance and delight. And now what is the new tenderness in the
father’s eyes, this new gentleness in the touch of his hands, this unwonted sincerity
in his embrace, this new willingness to labor and cherish and protect? Perhaps here
in the child, where one never thought to seek it, is the centre of life, and the secret
of content?