Yet there’s plenty of real hardship; this doesn’t prevent people from adding to it, by a sort of indiscipline of the imagination. Every day you can meet at least one person who’ll complain about his job, and what he says will appear quite convincing, because there’s something to be said about everything and nothing’s perfect.
You, a teacher, have, you say, to instruct young brutes who know nothing and are interested in nothing; you, an engineer, are plunged deep in an ocean of paperwork; you, a lawyer, have to plead your case before judges dozing as they digest their lunch instead of listening to you. What you say is no doubt true; I assume it is; these things always contain some truth. If on top of that you have an upset stomach or shoes letting in water, I understand you very well; that’s plenty with which to damn life, men —and God, if you believe in his existence.
Notice one thing, however, which is that this goes on endlessly and that sadness generates sadness. In complaining of destiny like this, you add to your hardships, you deprive yourself in advance of any hope of laughter, and your stomach feels worse. If you had a friend, and he complained bitterly about everything, no doubt you would try to calm him and make him see the world from a different point of view. Why shouldn’t you be a precious friend to yourself? Yes, seriously, I say that we must love ourselves a little and be kind to ourselves. For things often depend on the first attitude we take. An ancient author said that every event has two handles, and it is not sensible to choose to carry it by the one that hurts the hand. Common language has always described those who choose the best and most invigorating form of words as philosophical; this hits the target. We must plead our own case, not against it. We all plead so well and so eloquently, that we could easily find reasons to be content, if we choose that route. I have often noticed that it is inadvertently, and a little also from politeness, that people complain about their work. If we encourage them to talk about what they do or what they make, not what they endure, they become poets, and happy ones at that.
A light rain begins; you’re in the street, you open your umbrella; that’s enough. What is the point of saying ‘More foul weather’? That makes no difference at all to the raindrops, nor to the clouds, nor to the wind. Why don’t you just as well say ‘Ah, a pleasant drizzle’? I hear you, this makes no difference at all to the raindrops; that’s true; but it will be good for you; your whole body will give itself a shake and warm up properly, for that’s the effect of the slightest movement of joy; and then you are in the best state to receive the rain without catching a cold.
And you should also take human beings as you do the rain. That’s not easy, you say. Yes it is; it is a lot easier than with the rain. Your smile makes no difference to the rain, but it makes a lot of difference to human beings, and simply through imitation, it makes them less sad and less tedious. Without considering that you can easily find excuses for them, if you look within yourself. Marcus Aurelius used to say every morning: “Today I am going to meet a vain man, a liar, a selfish man, a bore; they are like this out of ignorance.”
4/11/07
Pleiade I, p.19, P. d’un Normand, no.608,
English translation copyright © Michel Petheram
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