Wealth is traditionally identified with tangible property—land,
cattle, and other material possessions—with money, and with
intangible "goods" such as patents and copyrights. Is a person wealthy
to the extent that he has those things? No, not unless he values
them. Value, for each person, is a subjective consideration. Economists,
however, treat it as an objective truth, and consider themselves
to be working with a science as exact as physics or chemistry. (Does
not everyone with the slightest claim to methodology today clamber
onto the bandwagon of modern science?) Economists equate value with
cost—the cost of production and distribution, of advertising,
and of other objective factors—as determining the price of
things. Price, to them, equals value.
Viewed subjectively, however, price has little to do with value.
Value is the worth we personally place on a thing. Our view of wealth
may be very different from that of an economist. In this chapter
I propose to take the subjective view, and I think you may end up
agreeing that this one is more valid for someone who is concerned,
not with how to become rich in terms of saleable possessions, but
in terms of what one himself really values.
So far, I've been submitting traditional explanations for things,
whether cosmic or mundane, to a re-evaluation based on common sense,
and on a view that is more meaningful from a human perspective.
For whereas the economists' explanations may be important for people
whose concerns are more global, they may be useless for those whose
interest lies in finding personal fulfillment, or for that matter
for people with a broader spectrum of values than the concern for
mere property.
Economists, of course, predicate their thinking on the assumption
that, since a certain amount of material wealth is desirable, more
of it is even more desirable. Material wealth, however, becomes
highly undesirable once a person realizes that a surfeit
of it results not in freedom, but in bondage. Why, indeed, should
anyone join the stampede toward surfeit and suffering, if a sane
alternative for attaining happiness exists, especially if that alternative
doesn't mean self-deprivation? Why follow a road for no other reason
than the fact that others travel it? Why not, instead, go by a more
scenic route?
My concern in these pages has not been with mechanisms, but with
meaning—meaning as it applies to us as human beings. From an
economist's standpoint, it is pricing that is of interest, not values.
The subject is extraordinarily complex, and becomes increasingly
so the deeper one delves into it. To understand the subject fully
may be impossible, for it soars into the reaches of higher mathematics
where abstruse theory drifts off into unprovable conclusions and
may lead in virtually any direction one fancies. That complexity
is only technical, however. From a human point of view, the situation
is relatively simple.
Clear light on the subject is needed, however, to illuminate it.
One difficulty with economic theory is the notorious unreliability
of its predictions.
A friend of mine in Australia, a successful financier, told me about
a venture he'd once launched. After the first year, he said, the
business showed a deficit. His accountants explained to him the
reasons why.
"Could you have told me that at the beginning of the year?" he inquired.
They admitted they could not have. "So," he said in conclusion,
"I fired the lot of them. From that time on I let myself be guided
by my own common sense, and the business flourished." He confessed
he'd been overwhelmed, initially, by the array of charts, statistics,
and theories those accountants had presented for his study.
Value represents for each of us that which we ourselves want in
life. Simple enough, surely! If nobody wanted gold, the general
disinterest would deprive gold of its value. A Van Gogh painting
is valuable to the extent that people give it value. Their
desire is what determines its price. If no one wanted it, it would
be no more valuable than any piece of damaged canvas of comparable
size.
Next to desirability as a criterion of wealth is the ease or difficulty
we'd have in obtaining what we want. Air, for example, though a
life necessity, is available everywhere; therefore we don't attach
great value to it. Were it suddenly to become scarce, however, it
would be worth up to everything we possess. Van Gogh's "Starry Night,"
on the other hand, is not even available in the original. Were it
for sale, some people would desire it so greatly that its monetary
value, for them, would be enormous.
If an object is desirable, but can be obtained only at the effort,
let us say, of traversing vast deserts, scaling high mountains,
and braving stormy seas, it would have far more value for us than
if it could be bought at the local supermarket.
Total lack of availability would deprive it of its appeal. Many
other things, besides, might lose their appeal if the trouble of
obtaining them were too great. The important thing, in this case,
is to keep your desires within the bounds of your capabilities.
Those stormy seas, for instance, might appear simply too great an
obstacle when added to the difficulty of crossing vast deserts and
scaling high mountains. (A young swain comes to mind who wrote to
his beloved saying that, for her, he'd willingly brave deserts,
high mountains, and stormy seas. In a short postscript, he added,
"I'll visit you next Saturday, if it isn't raining.")
Adam Smith wrote that the value of a thing is determined by the
effort that went into its production. "Labour alone," he stated,
"never varying in its own value, is alone the ultimate and real
standard by which the value of all commodities can at all times
and places be estimated and compared. It is their real price; money
is their nominal price only." Earlier, we saw that Karl Marx offered
the same criterion. What both of those men said is no doubt true
when applied, as they intended, to factory workers. They themselves
allowed for differences of skill and speed in one's work. As we
pointed out earlier, however, the amount of time that goes into
something complex like building a home is by no means the only criterion
of its value. Finally it comes down to the care and intelligence
that went into designing and constructing the home, not merely to
the labor that went into building it. Other criteria are important
also. "Demand"—the term economists use—depends also on
such factors as appearance, design, location, and the neighborhood
around the home. Value, from the point of view of demand, is entirely
subjective. Some people would pay large sums of money for a pair
of shoes worn by a famous golfer when winning a major championship.
The trophy would be meaningless to anyone who had no interest in
golf.
Money is wealth only to the extent that it can be used in exchange
for the things one wants. It is useless to an Eskimo, for example,
in the snowy wastes he inhabits, for nothing exists around him for
sale. And it is useless to someone who doesn't want what can be
exchanged for money.
Several years ago I went on vacation to a Latin American country.
On my return to America, the customs officer glanced at my declaration
on the form and exclaimed, "I can't believe it! Seventeen cents!
Is that really all you spent?" We had a good laugh. I'd bought
nothing that whole week but a pocket comb. What did it matter to
me what the prices were, since I'd seen nothing there that I wanted?
Local manufacturers might have tried to whet my appetite with advertisements
for their products. That is why advertisers are hired: both to tell
people that the product exists and to give the product itself an
aura of attractiveness. Advertising is a service to people if it
informs them of an object's availability. It is arguably amoral,
however, if its sole purpose is to inflame people's desire for it.
Indeed, the desire for unnecessary "necessities" is the silken cord
that binds modern civilization to the wheel of perennial dissatisfaction.
In Panama some years ago, the United Food Company was distressed
because its women workers remained at their jobs only two months
a year. During the other months they lived on their earnings. Then
a bright lad in the company had an inspiration: Why not send every
woman a Sears Roebuck catalogue? The catalogues were sent, and the
problem ceased: The women returned to work, and remained there uncomplainingly
the whole year around.
Adam Smith's analysis of value must be considered in the context
of one of his purposes, which was to protect the factory worker
from selfish employers who were interested only in boosting their
profits, and therefore in keeping the wages as low as possible while
they squeezed all the work out of their employee that they could.
Given the circumstances, the quality of the work was probably, as
Adam Smith said, fairly uniform. It would be a mistake, he argued,
to value such work at no more than the cost of slave labor.
Karl Marx, on the other hand, cannot be so easily exonerated, for
he placed supreme importance on labor itself, regardless of any
thought and care that goes into designing and making a product.
His system was a disaster for society, for it enforced conformity
to a mindlessly controlled system, run by people as indifferent
to the quality of the work as were the workers themselves. In Russia
many years ago, a Western visitor was taken around a factory where
he found what looked like evidence at last of real efficiency. It
was a factory that made signs, and its products were stacked everywhere.
He asked his guide, "What do those signs say?" Her answer was, "They
say, 'Out of order.'"
It has been wisely said that a society is known by the people it
considers great. The heroes of Marxist society are those men and
women with the least commitment to anybody's welfare. Their service
is to "the system." Some of those "heroes" butchered people by the
thousands to achieve their envied status.
Adam Smith did at least try to uplift society materially, by emphasizing
free enterprise. The "upliftment" Marx offered was an outright deception.
He hailed as the nation's best citizens those who, in other societies,
have usually attracted the least admiration. Such people were, he
said, the true aristocrats. This appellation was merely theoretical.
The power it implied was that of the mob.
Intelligent people are more and more coming to realize that wealth
is not a thing so much as a manifestation of well-directed
energy. It is not the result only of muscular labor, but of thought,
of sensitive appreciation for beauty, of concern for usefulness,
and, if you will, of love. If one were to lose everything materially,
but still possess his creativity, he might justifiably claim to
be richer than another who had inherited millions, but lacked the
creativity to put his money to productive use. Wealth that is too
easily acquired might even be placed in quotation marks, for it
represents capital with little likelihood of further gain. In time,
it will dwindle away. Interestingly in this context, I am told (whether
rightly or not I don't know) that the Vanderbilt family, once mighty
in the world of finance, has lost all its wealth.
Adam Smith's general thesis was that every human being is motivated
primarily by self-interest. A nation's prosperity, he said, will
soar if it gives people the freedom to improve their own lot. "It
is not," he wrote, "from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer,
or the baker that we expect our dinner, but from their regard to
their own interest. We address ourselves, not to their humanity,
but to their self-love, and never talk to them of our own necessities,
but of their advantages." Passages like this caused an outcry among
soi-disant champions of morality, though in fact Smith had
simply stated an obvious truth. He was comparing self-interest to
false morality, which bases generosity and benevolence entirely
on self-denial. Smith was right, of course. Morality, as people
usually define it, is hypocrisy. No one will really help
another if he expects only, in doing so, to become miserable. Self-sacrifice
for others should be for the sake of a greater good. If it benefits
oneself also, if only in terms of inner satisfaction, it is no sacrifice.
Smith erred only, as many self-styled moralists have done, by not
humanizing his subject enough. He didn't focus with sufficient clarity
on the people's actual needs, as individuals.
He gave us examples—the butcher, the brewer, the baker—to
support his argument. What he didn't do was give us human beings:
He gave us two-dimensional tradesmen. It might have helped had he
given those tradesmen names, personalities, families.
Let us make up for this "sin of omission." We'll name the baker,
William—surname, Baker. And we'll assume the presence of another
one in town, whom we'll name Joe—surname, Crumpet. Let us be
even more specific. William concentrates only on the advantages
accruing to himself while he sells bread, whereas Joe, though fully
aware that he is earning a living, has other values besides. He
greets you with a smile, treats you as a friend, asks after your
family, hopes that you enjoy his baked goods, perhaps solicits your
advice on how to improve them.
Let us now assume—it is probably the case anyway—that
William wears a perennially grim expression, that he has poor digestion,
and is always bitter about something. Joe, on the other hand, is
warm-hearted, healthy, and happy. Isn't it likely that, quite apart
from economic considerations—their products bear more or less
the same prices—you'll shop at Joe's, and shun William as a
bad omen?
Adam Smith, in discussing economics, discounted more human considerations
such as benevolence because he considered these to lie outside the
circle he'd drawn. He wanted to convince his readers that he, too,
was a scientist. Whence, however, that word, benevolence?
Whence other words like it, such as kindness, sympathy, compassion,
and good will? These must have some meaning. If they haven't
any for the economist, perhaps the fault lies in the way he approaches
his science.
Let us imagine a final possibility: What if William—not Joe,
mind you, for whom we have a natural liking, but William, for whom
we have little—is stricken by tragedy? His home may have burned
down, or his only child just died. Wouldn't you rush to bring him
and his family comfort and assistance, offering them money, food,
clothing, sympathy? Financial considerations wouldn't enter the
picture. Even your personal feelings for him, which have been at
best tepid, would pale to insignificance before his great loss.
Adam Smith, being an economist, ignored such considerations as irrelevant.
Economic constructs, however, if kept apart from human realities,
are no better than wax images. They may be artful, but they lack
life. Being only wax, moreover, they melt under the heat of scrutiny
and become shapeless. If there is any subject that affects our lives
daily, it is just this one, economics, which Smith separated so
carefully from the life we actually live. We ought to give highest
economic consideration to human values: not as statistics, merely,
but for their meaning to us as individuals. We ought to see people,
too, in terms of the awareness they project. This is their
primary reality, for us.
Smith was right in saying that every human being is motivated primarily
by self-interest. What he missed, since he was concentrating on
mechanisms, was the simple fact that self-interest is directional:
leading inward toward greater self-absorption, or outward, toward
greater self-expansion. In the first case, it shrinks a person's
awareness inward upon himself. The result is slowly decreasing personal
satisfaction and happiness. In the second case it expands one's
consciousness. The result is ever-increasing personal contentment
and fulfillment.
Self-interest need not be selfish. In itself, it is only self-awareness,
which has a natural impulse toward expansion. In expansion it finds
fulfillment. Contractiveness, on the contrary, which squeezes one's
self-identity, brings him increasing frustration and disappointment.
True expansion of self-identity comes not with an increasing number
of possessions, nor with power over greater numbers of people, but
with growing sympathy and understanding. Such expansion means broadening
one's identity with others, including their needs in one's own needs
instead of trying to force everything and everybody into an orbit
around one's own little ego.
This atom, the ego, is obliged of its own nature to view everything
filtered through its self-awareness. This awareness begins small,
like an atom drifting alone in space. If the atom happens to collide
with another, their united gravity, though still tiny, increases.
Gradually, other atoms join them, and their gravity field slowly
increases, until finally great clouds of atoms are drawn to them
even from millions of miles away.
Thus too, as the ego acquires experiences, develops its own attitudes,
and acquires new characteristics, it develops a field of energy
comparable to gravity—call it magnetism—attracting to
itself increasing understanding, power, and sensitive awareness.
In the case of atoms, when they are united in sufficient numbers
a star is born. Similarly, as people increase their awareness and
intelligence, their "magnetism" (so called) increases until, like
stars in the firmament of humanity, they radiate light to everyone
they meet.
Sometimes in the vastness of space a star implodes, to become what
is known in astronomy as a black hole, the density of which is so
enormous that not even light escapes it. Egoic self-involvement,
similarly—the opposite of expansive self-interest—is implosive.
Its psychological density can become extreme. Pride and selfishness
shrink a person's consciousness until, figuratively speaking, in
his total self-absorption no radiance escapes him.
Such is the direction of development for the William Bakers of this
world, though few of them ever become so psychologically imploded
as to deserve comparison to black holes. The Joe Crumpets, on the
other hand, radiate light outward to others. Like stars, their sympathies
shine expansively. They enjoy sharing, and have no wish to draw
possessively to themselves. Self-interest, for both the Crumpets
and the Bakers, is a reality, but the Crumpets are wise enough to
realize that fulfillment comes from sharing with others, not by
absorbing their energy and happiness for their own gain.
Enlightened self-interest is far from contradicting traditional
ethics. Indeed, it is the only true basis for ethics there is. Unenlightened
self-interest, on the other hand, goes against human nature itself.
In drawing happiness inward to itself it limits its horizons, finally
to the point of self-suffocation.
In saying, "I appreciate other people's needs and interests, as
I do my own; I appreciate their friendship; I appreciate the realities
they share with me," one places himself in harmony with others and
with nature's ways. Self-expansion is self-ennobling. Self-ennoblement,
in return, is self-expansive. How different, this perception of
nobility, from the conceptions of Adam Smith, Karl Marx, and Machiavelli!
To Adam Smith, nobility meant wealth. To Marx, genuine aristocracy
was a "dictatorship of the proletariat." To Machiavelli, nobility
meant the power wielded by a ruler. But true nobility is dominion
of another kind. It expands one's self-interest to a sense of identity
with others. Originally, the term aristocrat was equated
with nobility of character. It had little or nothing to do with
property or monetary wealth.
In ancient India, the ruling class were the kshatriyas, or
"warriors," a symbolic name which signified willingness to sacrifice
their own lives for their countrymen. Over centuries this ideal
was lost, to the point where aristocracy came to signify a merely
hereditary privilege. Wealthy landowners and military leaders claimed
the right to be served, and never thought in terms of serving others.
Social distinction in Western countries, though bestowed primarily
on the wealthy, was sometimes given also to those who were well
educated and who possessed at least a veneer of refinement. This
was the sole remaining instance of a previously common perception
that respect is due above all to those who deserve it personally.
In truth, there have always been peasants who were nobler by nature
than most so-called aristocrats. In other words, there has always
been a true, as opposed to a false, conventional, nobility. True
nobility is based on personal worth. False nobility is based on
the "counterfeit" value of worldly power and a large bank account.
Democracy is an attempt to rectify aristocratic abuses by claiming
that everyone is an aristocrat. Not many people deserve that high
rank, of course, except in the latent potential everyone has in
his humanity. To pretend that everyone is noble is to robe the veriest
ditch-digger in a silk robe of imaginary majesty. Dull minds are
fit only for manual labor; they express human potential in its lowest
form. It is not from such people that one expects the creative spirit
needed for progress. Dullards have very little sense of responsibility
to others, and still less to society as a whole. For this reason
alone, ditch-diggers and the like are not worthy of the encomiums
lavished on them by Karl Marx. Demagogues assure people, especially
those who don't care to think for themselves, "You're as good as
the best!" And what is the result? As their sense of self-worth
grows, bloated by flattery, true nobility is mocked at as artificial
and no longer worth emulating; rather, people suspect it doesn't
even exist. Thus, nobility is equated with mediocre intelligence
and with "people power," and anyone even moderately thoughtful is
denounced as a parasite.
I recall in the 1940s, as a delayed echo from the "thirties," how
intellectuals would affect "earthy" language and attitudes to impress
others with their own "basic realism." This was a pose, merely.
In the 1950s, beatnik poets with masters degrees in literature would
affect bad grammar so as not to be mistaken for dreamers whose heads
were in the clouds. During the hippie movement of the 1960s and
'70s, intellectuals adopted a whole new language to show that they
were not "highfalutin'," parasitic, or unreal. Poses, all, in a
sorry attempt to show that they were "as real, man," as your local
ditch-digger, and capable of being quite as grubby as he after his
hard day's work. Thank you, Karl Marx. You've given mankind a new
goal to strive for: mindless, heedless, gut-centered stupidity,
with the primal force of raw emotion that Tennessee Williams expressed
with such grunting eloquence in his plays.
Unless this way of thinking is corrected, it will cause the downfall
of democracy itself. For what will ensue, once the majority are
invited to arbitrate everything including moral issues, is that
emotions will come to dominate the public's consciousness. By emotions
I mean the outraged denunciation of anything that doesn't meet with
mass approval; loud acclamation for every passing fad; refusal to
listen to any point of view different from one's own; and support
for anything demanded by "the people." Wisdom itself becomes redefined
to signify whatever reflects the "will of the people."
Elections determined by considerations such as these cannot fail,
in time, to bring economic disintegration, as candidates realize
there is no point in being over-scrupulous in the promises they
make. "Everyone," they assure their electorate, "will have whatever
he or she desires. You all deserve the best!" The ensuing
"benefits" are, of course, funded by tax money, which in turn is
filtered through the sieve of ever-expanding governmental control.
In the process, the costs add up. And whence comes all that money?
Initially—one suspects—from many who never voted for those
"representatives" in the first place.
When the need for tax money exceeds people's willingness to be taxed,
a solution is ready to hand: Increase the money supply! Monetary
inflation destroys, ultimately, the value of money itself. This
is called "hidden taxation."
What occurs is that government-guaranteed security becomes the general
goal, in time. People prefer it to personal integrity. The government,
in trying to give people everything they want, robs them of their
freedoms. For the larger a government is, and the greater the people's
sense of security under its protection, the more their liberty is
lost altogether.
The larger a government, moreover, the less the prosperity a nation
creates. For bureaucrats, generally speaking, are not competent
businessmen. People with business skills are attracted to the private
sector, where creativity is prized.
An example of the business ineptitude of governments is evident
in the U.S. Post Office. Many years ago, first-class postage stamps
cost only three cents. Today, they cost thirty-four. The ostensible
goal of this large price increase—80%, adjusted for inflation—is
improved efficiency. Accompanying the rise in the cost of stamps,
however, has been an actual decline in efficiency.
Many years ago I wrote to the U.S. Post Office in Washington D.C.
to complain of the glue they were using on their air letter forms.
"I lick the flap," I said, "but it won't seal. The moment the paper
dries, it comes unstuck." Now, commercial envelopes, available in
stationery stores and markets everywhere, have never posed this
problem. Couldn't the government have learned this elementary lesson
from private industry? The reply I received told me that this idea
hadn't occurred to them. "We are aware of the problem you mention,"
the letter assured me, "and are experimenting with different glues.
We confidently expect to have the matter resolved before long."
Has the problem ever been solved? I don't know. Nowadays, I use
e-mail.
I don't think an exhaustive study of various types of government,
and of possible solutions to the problems connected with creeping
bureaucracy, would accomplish anything positive. I suspect the problem
can't be solved, at least not given present realities.
Democracy was established because people had grown fed up with oligarchy
(rule by a few) and wanted freedom. Freedom, however, cannot survive
if people decide they'd rather be secure. Democracy, in this case,
eventually becomes replaced again by oligarchy, and the cycle continues
indefinitely.
Human nature being what it is, it is doubtful whether any system
will provide a permanent solution. Systems can't ensure anything
that isn't backed by the will of the people. The best system imaginable
cannot but fail, if those living under it are not interested in
making it work. And the worst system will somehow totter along if
its citizens have that will. It isn't that good systems aren't worthwhile,
but only that they are accompanied by no guarantees.
Consider Adam Smith's argument for free enterprise. Yes, it ought
to work. No controlled economy, certainly, has ever shown, or ever
could show, itself capable of producing wealth. Free enterprise,
in which everyone is at liberty to promote his own well-being, is
the only system so far that shows any promise. Does this mean it
is perfect? Far from it!
The greatest problem with free enterprise is that large, wealthy,
powerful companies are able to use their power to suppress competition.
Let us say someone creates a new product, and forms a company to
manufacture and sell it. What happens next? An already-established,
already-wealthy, already-powerful corporation produces a similar
product, and sells it at a loss with the sole intention of driving
the "little guy" out of business. What is the poor fellow to do?
People nowadays run to "Big Daddy," or "Big Brother"—in other
words, they seek government intervention, urging Congress to pass
a law that will make unfair practices like this impossible. At first,
government interference looks good. It is only a stopgap measure,
however. Government interference grows, as similar issues arise.
Its largeness fans the legislators' sense of self-importance, which
in turn develops in them a certain feeling of kinship with bigness
everywhere. Big government, by the very nature of things, ends up
favoring big corporations, even though its original raison d'être
was concern for the "little guy." Meanwhile, things reach a point,
eventually, where new companies can barely open their doors to do
business after they've complied with all the fussy regulations.
For when they've finally satisfied those official requirements,
they find they have little left actually to run their business!
Are there possible alternatives? Here's a suggestion: Instead of
running to "Big Daddy" for help, why not diversify what you sell?
If competition undercuts a single product, the business may survive
long enough on other resources for its competitors to tire of the
game, and let the little fellow have his profits after all.
Whether any specific "little guy" finds this suggestion feasible,
it may at least inspire him to try to develop "solution-consciousness,"
and to study the possibilities for other answers. In time he may
find that there are many feasible alternatives. Every viable alternative
will re-emphasize the worth, incentive, and capabilities of the
individual. A spirit of self-reliance will automatically discourage
the practice—almost a conditioned reflex by now—of running
to "Big Daddy" for help. Here, in fact, we arrive at a new concept
of wealth, one very different from what Adam Smith proposed in The
Wealth of Nations.
What is wealth, really? A person has it in proportion to
what he possesses that he himself values. He is not wealthy
in proportion merely to other people's envy of him, except perhaps
to the extent that he values that envy and the shallow importance
he imagines it gives him.
Wealth should not be considered in terms of what other people find
desirable. It should be defined in terms of one's own desires, and
one's own values. Having established these values, a person should
live by them faithfully.
Food, clothing, shelter: These are universal needs. If a person
has them, and desires nothing more, he is already wealthy. Beyond
that, the struggle for wealth is arduous and never-ending. To a
great extent, it is a useless quest for non-essentials, and leaves
one maimed in spirit if not in limb; weary, disillusioned, and increasingly
unhappy. And what lesson is learned from it at last? that it has
all been for nothing! Everything, in the end, must be abandoned.
People's concept of wealth is focused far too narrowly on what others
think of them, from a desire for their envy. When that envy is desired,
what one really wants is others' unhappiness compared to his own.
How can so ignoble a desire fail to create enemies? The more enemies
one has, the more one feels the need to protect himself, to be forever
wary and fearful.
Appreciation for the happiness of others, on the other hand, wins
their friendly appreciation in return. It makes friends of them.
A person surrounded by friends is relaxed in the knowledge that
they will support him in his need. As his identity expands beyond
the narrow confines of selfhood and self-preoccupation, he finds
happiness in himself. Self-interest is self-fulfilling if it is
directed outward to embrace others as part of one's own reality.
When self-interest contracts inward, however, separating itself
from others and from life, it produces, as we have seen, inner suffering.
The worst disease of modern times is a surfeit of the wrong kind
of wealth: attachment to an ever-increasing number of possessions.
These become obsessions, eventually to possess us in return.
Life, for most people, is a treadmill. There is no end to the weary
trudge so long as one's desires are centered in dreams of self-aggrandizement.
If there is a better way, it can be found not in grandiose schemes
for world betterment, but in a search for personal fulfillment.
Once the right way to this fulfillment is found, its benefits become
obvious. The lesson will spread naturally, by example. Those grandiose
schemes for social betterment are like splashes of rose water onto
a muddy pond: The fragrance is nullified immediately by the stench
of ambition and selfish desires. The way to true fulfillment lies
in expanding, not in contracting, one's sympathies. A person should
expand his interest in life and his concern for others until he
is able to declare, "Self-interest, rightly understood, is the essence
of true wisdom."
If you decide to change your life's patterns, and if experience
shows you that this has been a good decision, others will be inspired
to change themselves as you did. The change—yours, and then
theirs—must be voluntary. It must not be embraced for the vague
sake of "humanity," nor to please anyone else. Indeed, it would
be a mistake to think that because any specific idea is good it
must therefore be universally adopted. One system for all may be
feasible for colonies of ants, but it won't work for human beings.
Humanity is too complex for any one person, or even a few people,
to solve all its problems. Do your best, instead, to shine in the
little space you've been allotted. Inspire others also, as you are
able, to develop their own light. But don't presume to tell anyone
how to shine. And don't expect anyone merely to reflect your
own light. The best thing you can do for "humanity" is to encourage
a few others toward their own self-development.
Be noble in the true sense, then! To own land will not make you
so. Riches won't do it. People's envy will not enhance your real
worth. Seek wealth in faithfulness to your own ideals. Be true,
first of all, to your own happiness. Why honor other people's definition
of wealth? Why follow the flock, while the sheep dog, public opinion,
barks at your heels to keep you in line?
The best posture to assume is to stand on your own two feet! And
what is the best attitude? To turn to new advantage the common question,
"What's in it for me?" by asking, "What will truly promote my own
happiness?" Meanwhile, what is all that barking about? Isn't the
sheep dog only telling you, "Don't look for happiness! Be like everyone
else. See what fun they're having, snatching and grabbing everything
they can from one another!"
Community is a basic human need. The question when seeking it should
be, "With whom shall I mix?" Crucial to the answer is another question:
"Why these people, particularly?" Most people see no urgency in
this last question. Yet they ought to. Usually, the "where, who,
and why" of community is determined by such superficial considerations
as nearness to one's work, social prestige, schooling for the children,
and shopping convenience. Yet people, too, are important to us—for
themselves, and for the influence they have on our lives.
From birth onward we are thrust among other people. We depend on
them for our strength, knowledge, emotional support, experience,
and wisdom. And we need, for our own mental, moral, and spiritual
development, to be able to offer them support in return. Such, realistically
speaking, is the Social Contract, toward which the philosophers
Hobbes, Locke, and Rousseau were reaching. They, however, thought
in terms of people's relationship to their governments, not of their
responsibility to themselves and to one another. A tacit admission
of interdependence exists between all members of a society. It is
the true benefit of civilization.
Why continue plodding numbly down the same worn lane, once you've
seen that life is not giving you what you hoped for? Why not seek
companions from whom you might gain greater satisfaction than the
mere convenience of having company? Indeed, why not seek others
for their compatibility with your own higher aspirations?
People do not necessarily achieve wisdom with age. Often, all they
achieve is girth and increased foolishness. Whole societies sometimes
err in basic ways. A person who wants to improve his life meaningfully
must struggle uphill to realize that desire, against countless descending
influences. Why not augment your strength by associating with people
who share your goals in life?
One reason people need one another is that they dread the yawning
emptiness in themselves. They are lonely, and depend, consequently,
on outer stimulation. Strange to say, they fear even to be inspired,
lest inspiration force them to think deeply! They seek community
with others as a way of escape.
Sooner or later, however, they will have to face the ultimate reality:
their own selves. Why waste a whole lifetime? Why not seek out friends
in whose company you can find challenge and upliftment?—companions
who can reinforce the potential you know exists in yourself. Only
such people can be your true friends. Others are mere "fillers"!
Think, finally, what it would mean to bring unity to your life.
Job, friends, home, church, school, recreation: all in one place.
This is what a well-formed community would offer. Instead of scattering
the energy you devote to these pursuits, bring a clear focus to
your life. Modern life, lacking this focus, has become fragmented.
Bestowing no inner peace, it creates a spirit of restlessness and
deep unhappiness.
Small communities, in which people live together for their own and
for one another's true fulfillment, are surely a goal worth striving
toward for everyone anxious to find a solution to life's problems. |
|
Hope
for a Better World!
