Umni rad, lov u visokim oblastima duha, predstavlja jedan od najvećih napora čovekovih. Pod umnim radom treba podrazumevati sve što misao stvara, a ono što mora da zasluži slavu, to je naročito hrabrost, jedna hrabrost o kojoj prosečan čovek i ne sanja - treba preći od zamisli na dela, preskačući i ne mereći provaliju koja razdvaja te dve polovine. Misliti i sanjati, zamišljati lepa dela jeste vrlo prijatno zanimanje. Delo se tada nazire u ljupkosti detinjstva, u ludoj radosti stvaranja, sa mirisnim bojama cveta i svežim sokovima ploda koji se sladi unapred. Takvo je zamišljanje i njegovo ushićenje. Već onaj ko ume da predstavi svoj plan važi kao neobičan čovek. I tu sposobnost imaju gotovo svi umetnici i svi pisci.
Ali raditi! Ali stvoriti! To je izvršenje i rad na njemu… Ruka mora da se pruža u svakom trenutku, gotova da posluša glavu. A glava nema tvoračke sposobnosti kad god hoće. Ta navika stvaranja, ta neumorna ljubav materinstva koja čini majku, jednom rečju to moždano materinstvo koje se tako teško zadobija, gubi se neobično lako… Nadahnuće - to je srećan slučaj genija. Zato rad jeste zamorna borba, koju voli lepa i moćna snaga koja često u njoj propada. Pesnik je rekao o takvom radu: “Pristupam mu sa očajanjem, a ostavljam ga teška srca.” Ako se umetnik ne baca na svoje delo kao junak u bezdan, kao vojnik na bedem, ne razmišljajući i ako u tom grotlu ne radi kao rudar koga je zatrpala zemlja; drugim rečima ako teškoće posmatra umesto da ih jednu po jednu savlađuje i rešava, kao oni srčani mladi ljudi iz vilinskih priča, koji se, da bi dobili carevu kćer, bore sa sve novim i novim čudovištima, delo ostaje nedovršeno, ono propada u radionici u kojoj stvaranje postaje nemogućno i umetnost prisustvuje samoubistvu svog talenta…
Kod stvaralačkih priroda kada ostanu bez despotske ruke koja ih vodi, ljubav i sreća izazivaju reakciju, i pravi karakter se ponovo javlja. Lenjost i nemar, mekuštvo, vraćaju se ponovo u za njih ugodne brazde iz kojih ih je oterao učiteljev prut. Tada se izgovara ona poznata reč svih neradnika: “Sad ću da počnem” i nastavlja se sa uljuljkivanjem varljivim rečima i sjajnim planovima. A što se rada tiče, ili je dan siv i taman, ili je u pitanju poslovna večera, ili ćeretanje sa obožavanom ženom, ne računajući dane kada čovek nije raspoložen ni duhom, ni telom. Tako ima genijalnih ljudi koji provode život “govoreći o sebi”, i koji se zadovoljavaju salonskom slavom. Ugledajte se na te ljubazne evnuhe i iz dana u dan osećaćete sve veću odvratnost prema radu. Uvidećete sve teškoće dela pre nego što ga započnete, a to oduzima hrabrost i slabi volju. Nadahnuće, to ludilo umnog stvaranja, odleteće čim spazi tog bolesnog ljubavnika...
... Sanjalice… svi ti pušači opijuma, neminovno dopadaju bede; rešenje tog teškog problema nalazi se samo u stalnome radu, jer se materijalne teškoće moraju tako pobeđivati, ruka se mora tako kažnjavati. Da je Paganini proveo samo nekoliko dana ne vežbajući on bi, zajedno se svojim izrazom, izgubio i “registar” svojega instrumenta; on je tako nazivao ono jedinstvo koje je postojalo između drveta, gudala, žica i njega; da se taj rad prekinuo on bi postao samo običan violinista. Postojan rad je zakon umetnosti isto tako kao i što je to zakon života. Umetnost je idealizovano stvaranje. I zato pravi umetnici ne očekuju ni porudžbine, ni kupce; oni stvaraju DANAS, SUTRA, UVEK. Iz toga se javlja ona NAVIKA na rad, ono neprekidno poznavanje teškoća, koje ih održava u ljubavi sa njihovom muzom i njenim tvoračkim snagama…
Honoré de Balzac
“How to Grow Old” by Bertrand Russell
In spite of the title, this article will really be on how not to grow old, which, at my time of life, is a much more important subject. My first advice would be to choose your ancestors carefully. Although both my parents died young, I have done well in this respect as regards my other ancestors. My maternal grandfather, it is true, was cut off in the flower of his youth at the age of sixty-seven, but my other three grandparents all lived to be over eighty. Of remoter ancestors I can only discover one who did not live to a great age, and he died of a disease which is now rare, namely, having his head cut off. A great-grandmother of mine, who was a friend of Gibbon, lived to the age of ninety-two, and to her last day remained a terror to all her descendants. My maternal grandmother, after having nine children who survived, one who died in infancy, and many miscarriages, as soon as she became a widow devoted herself to women’s higher education. She was one of the founders of Girton College, and worked hard at opening the medical profession to women. She used to tell of how she met in Italy an elderly gentleman who was looking very sad. She asked him why he was so melancholy and he said that he had just parted from his two grandchildren. ‘Good gracious,’ she exclaimed, ‘I have seventy-two grandchildren, and if I were sad each time I parted from one of them, I should have a miserable existence!’ ‘Madre snaturale!,’ he replied. But speaking as one of the seventy-two, I prefer her recipe. After the age of eighty she found she had some difficulty in getting to sleep, so she habitually spent the hours from midnight to 3 a.m. in reading popular science. I do not believe that she ever had time to notice that she was growing old. This, I think, is the proper recipe for remaining young. If you have wide and keen interests and activities in which you can still be effective, you will have no reason to think about the merely statistical fact of the number of years you have already lived, still less of the probable shortness of your future.
As regards health, I have nothing useful to say as I have little experience of illness. I eat and drink whatever I like, and sleep when I cannot keep awake. I never do anything whatever on the ground that it is good for health, though in actual fact the things I like doing are mostly wholesome.
Psychologically there are two dangers to be guarded against in old age. One of these is undue absorption in the past. It does not do to live in memories, in regrets for the good old days, or in sadness about friends who are dead. One’s thoughts must be directed to the future, and to things about which there is something to be done. This is not always easy; one’s own past is a gradually increasing weight. It is easy to think to oneself that one’s emotions used to be more vivid than they are, and one’s mind more keen. If this is true it should be forgotten, and if it is forgotten it will probably not be true.
The other thing to be avoided is clinging to youth in the hope of sucking vigour from its vitality. When your children are grown up they want to live their own lives, and if you continue to be as interested in them as you were when they were young, you are likely to become a burden to them, unless they are unusually callous. I do not mean that one should be without interest in them, but one’s interest should be contemplative and, if possible, philanthropic, but not unduly emotional. Animals become indifferent to their young as soon as their young can look after themselves, but human beings, owing to the length of infancy, find this difficult.
I think that a successful old age is easiest for those who have strong impersonal interests involving appropriate activities. It is in this sphere that long experience is really fruitful, and it is in this sphere that the wisdom born of experience can be exercised without being oppressive. It is no use telling grownup children not to make mistakes, both because they will not believe you, and because mistakes are an essential part of education. But if you are one of those who are incapable of impersonal interests, you may find that your life will be empty unless you concern yourself with your children and grandchildren. In that case you must realise that while you can still render them material services, such as making them an allowance or knitting them jumpers, you must not expect that they will enjoy your company.
Some old people are oppressed by the fear of death. In the young there there is a justification for this feeling. Young men who have reason to fear that they will be killed in battle may justifiably feel bitter in the thought that they have been cheated of the best things that life has to offer. But in an old man who has known human joys and sorrows, and has achieved whatever work it was in him to do, the fear of death is somewhat abject and ignoble. The best way to overcome it -so at least it seems to me- is to make your interests gradually wider and more impersonal, until bit by bit the walls of the ego recede, and your life becomes increasingly merged in the universal life. An individual human existence should be like a river: small at first, narrowly contained within its banks, and rushing passionately past rocks and over waterfalls. Gradually the river grows wider, the banks recede, the waters flow more quietly, and in the end, without any visible break, they become merged in the sea, and painlessly lose their individual being. The man who, in old age, can see his life in this way, will not suffer from the fear of death, since the things he cares for will continue. And if, with the decay of vitality, weariness increases, the thought of rest will not be unwelcome. I should wish to die while still at work, knowing that others will carry on what I can no longer do and content in the thought that what was possible has been done.
[from “Portraits From Memory And Other Essays”]