PRECAUTIONS BEFORE BEGINNING
Now that I have succeeded (if succeeded I have) in persuading you
to admit to yourself that you are constantly haunted by a suppressed
dissatisfaction with your own arrangement of your daily life; and
that the primal cause of that inconvenient dissatisfaction is the
feeling that you are every day leaving undone something which you
would like to do, and which, indeed, you are always hoping to do
when you have "more time"; and now that I have drawn your attention
to the glaring, dazzling truth that you never will have "more time,"
since you already have all the time there is-- you expect me to let
you into some wonderful secret by which you may at any rate approach
the ideal of a perfect arrangement of the day, and by which,
therefore, that haunting, unpleasant, daily disappointment of things
left undone will be got rid of!
I have found no such wonderful secret. Nor do I expect to find it,
nor do I expect that anyone else will ever find it. It is
undiscovered. When you first began to gather my drift, perhaps
there was a resurrection of hope in your breast. Perhaps you said
to yourself, "This man will show me an easy, unfatiguing way of
doing what I have so long in vain wished to do." Alas, no! The
fact is that there is no easy way, no royal road. The path to Mecca
is extremely hard and stony, and the worst of it is that you never
quite get there after all.
The most important preliminary to the task of arranging one's life
so that one may live fully and comfortably within one's daily budget
of twenty-four hours is the calm realisation of the extreme
difficulty of the task, of the sacrifices and the endless effort
which it demands. I cannot too strongly insist on this.
If you imagine that you will be able to achieve your ideal by
ingeniously planning out a time-table with a pen on a piece of
paper, you had better give up hope at once. If you are not prepared
for discouragements and disillusions; if you will not be content
with a small result for a big effort, then do not begin. Lie down
again and resume the uneasy doze which you call your existence.
It is very sad, is it not, very depressing and sombre? And yet I
think it is rather fine, too, this necessity for the tense bracing
of the will before anything worth doing can be done. I rather like
it myself. I feel it to be the chief thing that differentiates me
from the cat by the fire.
"Well," you say, "assume that I am braced for the battle. Assume
that I have carefully weighed and comprehended your ponderous
remarks; how do I begin?" Dear sir, you simply begin. There is no
magic method of beginning. If a man standing on the edge of a
swimming-bath and wanting to jump into the cold water should ask
you, "How do I begin to jump?" you would merely reply, "Just jump.
Take hold of your nerves, and jump."
As I have previously said, the chief beauty about the constant
supply of time is that you cannot waste it in advance. The next
year, the next day, the next hour are lying ready for you, as
perfect, as unspoilt, as if you had never wasted or misapplied a
single moment in all your career. Which fact is very gratifying and
reassuring. You can turn over a new leaf every hour if you choose.
Therefore no object is served in waiting till next week, or even
until to-morrow. You may fancy that the water will be warmer next
week. It won't. It will be colder.
But before you begin, let me murmur a few words of warning in
your private ear.
Let me principally warn you against your own ardour. Ardour in
well-doing is a misleading and a treacherous thing. It cries out
loudly for employment; you can't satisfy it at first; it wants more
and more; it is eager to move mountains and divert the course
of rivers. It isn't content till it perspires. And then, too often,
when it feels the perspiration on its brow, it wearies all of a
sudden and dies, without even putting itself to the trouble of
saying, "I've had enough of this."
Beware of undertaking too much at the start. Be content with
quite a little. Allow for accidents. Allow for human nature,
especially your own.
A failure or so, in itself, would not matter, if it did not incur a
loss of self-esteem and of self-confidence. But just as nothing
succeeds like success, so nothing fails like failure. Most people
who are ruined are ruined by attempting too much. Therefore, in
setting out on the immense enterprise of living fully and
comfortably within the narrow limits of twenty-four hours a day, let
us avoid at any cost the risk of an early failure. I will not agree
that, in this business at any rate, a glorious failure is better
than a petty success. I am all for the petty success. A glorious
failure leads to nothing; a petty success may lead to a success that
is not petty.
So let us begin to examine the budget of the day's time. You say
your day is already full to overflowing. How? You actually spend
in earning your livelihood-- how much? Seven hours, on the average?
And in actual sleep, seven? I will add two hours, and be generous.
And I will defy you to account to me on the spur of the moment for
the other eight hours.