The Fallacy of Success
G. K. Chesterton
Excerpted from ALL THINGS CONSIDERED by G. K. Chesterton, from an edition by John Lane Company, New York, 1909.
This etext was typed by Rob Szarka.
There has appeared in our time a particular class of books and articles which I sincerely and solemnly think may be called the silliest ever known among men. They are much more wild than the wildest romances of chivalry and much more dull than the dullest religious tract. Moreover, the romances of chivalry were at least about chivalry; the religious tracts are about religion. But these things are about nothing; they are about what is called Success. On every bookstall, in every magazine, you may find works telling people how to succeed. They are books showing men how to succeed in everything; they are written by men who cannot even succeed in writing books. To begin with, of course, there is no such thing as Success. Or, if you like to put it so, there is nothing that is not successful. That a thing is successful merely means that it is; a millionaire is successful in being a millionaire and a donkey in being a donkey. Any live man has succeeded in living; any dead man may have succeeded in committing suicide. But, passing over the bad logic and bad philosophy in the phrase, we may take it, as these writers do, in the ordinary sense of success in obtaining money or worldly position. These writers profess to tell the ordinary man how he may succeed in his trade or speculation—how, if he is a builder, he may succeed as a builder; how, if he is a stockbroker, he may succeed as a stockbroker. They profess to show him how, if he is a grocer, he may become a sporting yachtsman; how, if he is a tenth-rate journalist, he may become a peer; and how, if he is a German Jew, he may become an Anglo-Saxon. This is a definite and business-like proposal, and I really think that the people who buy these books (if any people do buy them) have a moral, if not a legal, right to ask for their money back. Nobody would dare to publish a book about electricity which literally told one nothing about electricity; no one would dare publish an article on botany which showed that the writer did not know which end of a plant grew in the earth. Yet our modern world is full of books about Success and successful people which literally contain no kind of idea, and scarcely and kind of verbal sense.
It is perfectly obvious that in any decent occupation (such as bricklaying or writing books) there are only two ways (in any special sense) of succeeding. One is by doing very good work, the other is by cheating. Both are much too simple to require any literary explanation. If you are in for the high jump, either jump higher than any one else, or manage somehow to pretend that you have done so. If you want to succeed at whist, either be a good whist-player, or play with marked cards. You may want a book about jumping; you may want a book about whist; you may want a book about cheating at whist. But you cannot want a book about Success. Especially you cannot want a book about Success such as those which you can now find scattered by the hundred about the book-market. You may want to jump or to play cards; but you do not want to read wandering statements to the effect that jumping is jumping, or that games are won by winners. If these writers, for instance, said anything about success in jumping it would be something like this: “The jumper must have a clear aim before him. He must desire definitely to jump higher than the other men who are in for the same competition. He must let no feeble feelings of mercy (sneaked from the sickening Little Englanders and Pro-Boers) prevent him from trying to DO HIS BEST. He must remember that a competition in jumping is distinctly competitive, and that, as Darwin has gloriously demonstrated, THE WEAKEST GO TO THE WALL.” That is the kind of thing the book would say, and very useful it would be, no doubt, if read out in a low and tense voice to a young man just about to take the high jump. Or suppose that in the course of his intellectual rambles the philosopher of Success dropped upon our other case, that of playing cards, his bracing advice would run—“In playing cards it is very necessary to avoid the mistake (commonly made by maudlin humanitarians and Free Traders) of permitting your opponent to win the game. You must have grit and snap and GO IN TO WIN. The days of idealism and superstition are over. We live in a time of science and hard common sense, and it has now been definitely proved that in any game where two are playing IF ONE DOES NOT WIN THE OTHER WILL.” It is all very stirring, of course; but I confess that if I were playing cards I would rather have some decent little book which told me the rules of the game. Beyond the rules of the game it is all a question either of talent or dishonesty; and I will undertake to provide either one or the other— which, it is not for me to say.
Turning over a popular magazine, I find a queer and amusing example. There is an article called “The Instinct that Makes People Rich.” It is decorated in front with a formidable portrait of Lord Rothschild. There are many definite methods, honest and dishonest, which make people rich; the only “instinct” I know of which does it is that instinct which theological Christianity crudely describes as “the sin of avarice.” That, however, is beside the present point. I wish to quote the following exquisite paragraphs as a piece of typical advice as to how to succeed. It is so practical; it leaves so little doubt about what should be our next step—
The name of Vanderbilt is synonymous with wealth gained by modern enterprise. ‘Cornelius,’ the founder of the family, was the first of the great American magnates of commerce. He started as the son of a poor farmer; he ended as a millionaire twenty times over.
He had the money-making instinct. He seized his opportunities, the opportunities that were given by the application of the steam-engine to ocean traffic, and by the birth of railway locomotion in the wealthy but underdeveloped United States of America, and consequently he amassed an immense fortune.
Now it is, of course, obvious that we cannot all follow exactly in the footsteps of this great railway monarch. The precise opportunities that fell to him do not occur to us. Circumstances have changed. But, although this is so, still, in our own sphere and in our own circumstances, we CAN follow his general methods; we can seize those opportunities that are given us, and give ourselves a very fair chance of attaining riches.
In such strange utterances we see quite clearly what is really at the bottom of all these articles and books. It is not mere business; it is not even mere cynicism. It is mysticism; the horrible mysticism of money. The writer of that passage did not really have the remotest notion of how Vanderbilt made his money, or of how anybody else is to make his. He does, indeed, conclude his remarks by advocating some scheme; but it has nothing in the world to do with Vanderbilt. He merely wished to prostrate himself before the mystery of a millionaire. For when we really worship anything, we love not only its clearness but its obscurity. We exult in its very invisibility. Thus, for instance, when a man is in love with a woman he takes special pleasure in the fact that a woman is unreasonable. Thus, again, the very pious poet, celebrating his Creator, takes pleasure in saying that God moves in a mysterious way. Now, the writer of the paragraph which I have quoted does not seem to have had anything to do with a god and I should not think (judging by his extreme unpracticality) that he had ever been really in love with a woman. But the thing he does worship—Vanderbilt— he treats in exactly this mystical manner. He really revels in the fact his deity Vanderbilt is keeping a secret from him. And it fills his soul with a sort of transport of cunning, an ecstasy of priestcraft, that he should pretend to be telling to the multitude that terrible secret which he does not know.
Speaking about the instinct that makes people rich, the same writer remarks—
In the olden days its existence was fully understood. The Greeks enshrined it in the story of Midas, of the ‘Golden Touch.’ Here was a man who turned everything he laid his hands upon into gold. His life was a progress amidst riches. Out of everything that came in his way he created the precious metal. ‘A foolish legend,’ said the wiseacres if the Victorian age. ‘A truth,’ say we of to-day. We all know of such men. We are ever meeting or reading about such persons who turn everything they touch into gold. Success dogs their very footsteps. Their life’s pathway leads unerringly upwards. They cannot fail.
Unfortunately, however, Midas could fail; he did. His path did not lead unerringly upward. He starved because whenever he touched a biscuit or a ham sandwich it turned to gold. That was the whole point of the story, though the writer has to suppress it delicately, writing so near to a portrait of Lord Rothschild. The old fables of mankind are, indeed, unfathomably wise; but we must not have them expurgated in the interests of Mr. Vanderbilt. We must not have King Midas represented as an example of success; he was a failure of an unusually painful kind. Also, he had the ears of an ass. Also (like most other prominent and wealthy persons) he endeavoured to conceal the fact. It was his barber (if I remember right) who had to be treated on a confidential footing with regard to this peculiarity; and his barber, instead of behaving like a go-ahead person of the Succeed-at-all-costs school and trying to blackmail King Midas, went away and whispered this splendid piece of society scandal to the reeds, who enjoyed it enormously. It is said that they also whispered it as the winds swayed them to and fro. I look reverently at the portrait of Lord Rothschild; I read reverently about the exploits of Mr. Vanderbilt. I know that I cannot turn everything I touch to gold; but then I also know that I have never tried, having a preference for other substances, such as grass, and good wine. I know that these people have certainly succeeded in something; that they have certainly overcome somebody; I know that they are kings in a sense that no men were ever kings before; that they create markets and bestride continents. Yet it always seems to me that there is some small domestic fact that they are hiding, and I have sometimes thought I heard upon the wind the laughter and whisper of the reeds.
At least, let us hope that we shall all live to see these absurd books about Success covered with a proper derision and neglect. They do not teach people to be successful, but they do teach people to be snobbish; they do spread a sort of evil poetry of worldliness. The Puritans are always denouncing books that inflame lust; what shall we say of books that inflame the viler passions of avarice and pride? A hundred years ago we had the ideal of the Industrious Apprentice; boys were told that by thrift and work they would all become Lord Mayors. This was fallacious, but it was manly, and had a minimum of moral truth. In our society, temperance will not help a poor man to enrich himself, but it may help him to respect himself. Good work will not make him a rich man, but good work may make him a good workman. The Industrious Apprentice rose by virtues few and narrow indeed, but still virtues. But what shall we say of the gospel preached to the new Industrious Apprentice; the Apprentice who rises not by his virtues, but avowedly by his vices?
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Last modified: 19th July, 2006 Martin Ward, Software Technology Research Lab, De Montfort University, Leicester. Email: martin@gkc.org.uk
The Fallacy of Success
G. K. Chesterton
Excerpted from ALL THINGS CONSIDERED by G. K. Chesterton, from an edition by John Lane Company, New York, 1909.
This etext was typed by Rob Szarka.
There has appeared in our time a particular class of books and articles which I sincerely and solemnly think may be called the silliest ever known among men. They are much more wild than the wildest romances of chivalry and much more dull than the dullest religious tract. Moreover, the romances of chivalry were at least about chivalry; the religious tracts are about religion. But these things are about nothing; they are about what is called Success. On every bookstall, in every magazine, you may find works telling people how to succeed. They are books showing men how to succeed in everything; they are written by men who cannot even succeed in writing books. To begin with, of course, there is no such thing as Success. Or, if you like to put it so, there is nothing that is not successful. That a thing is successful merely means that it is; a millionaire is successful in being a millionaire and a donkey in being a donkey. Any live man has succeeded in living; any dead man may have succeeded in committing suicide. But, passing over the bad logic and bad philosophy in the phrase, we may take it, as these writers do, in the ordinary sense of success in obtaining money or worldly position. These writers profess to tell the ordinary man how he may succeed in his trade or speculation—how, if he is a builder, he may succeed as a builder; how, if he is a stockbroker, he may succeed as a stockbroker. They profess to show him how, if he is a grocer, he may become a sporting yachtsman; how, if he is a tenth-rate journalist, he may become a peer; and how, if he is a German Jew, he may become an Anglo-Saxon. This is a definite and business-like proposal, and I really think that the people who buy these books (if any people do buy them) have a moral, if not a legal, right to ask for their money back. Nobody would dare to publish a book about electricity which literally told one nothing about electricity; no one would dare publish an article on botany which showed that the writer did not know which end of a plant grew in the earth. Yet our modern world is full of books about Success and successful people which literally contain no kind of idea, and scarcely and kind of verbal sense.
It is perfectly obvious that in any decent occupation (such as bricklaying or writing books) there are only two ways (in any special sense) of succeeding. One is by doing very good work, the other is by cheating. Both are much too simple to require any literary explanation. If you are in for the high jump, either jump higher than any one else, or manage somehow to pretend that you have done so. If you want to succeed at whist, either be a good whist-player, or play with marked cards. You may want a book about jumping; you may want a book about whist; you may want a book about cheating at whist. But you cannot want a book about Success. Especially you cannot want a book about Success such as those which you can now find scattered by the hundred about the book-market. You may want to jump or to play cards; but you do not want to read wandering statements to the effect that jumping is jumping, or that games are won by winners. If these writers, for instance, said anything about success in jumping it would be something like this: “The jumper must have a clear aim before him. He must desire definitely to jump higher than the other men who are in for the same competition. He must let no feeble feelings of mercy (sneaked from the sickening Little Englanders and Pro-Boers) prevent him from trying to DO HIS BEST. He must remember that a competition in jumping is distinctly competitive, and that, as Darwin has gloriously demonstrated, THE WEAKEST GO TO THE WALL.” That is the kind of thing the book would say, and very useful it would be, no doubt, if read out in a low and tense voice to a young man just about to take the high jump. Or suppose that in the course of his intellectual rambles the philosopher of Success dropped upon our other case, that of playing cards, his bracing advice would run—“In playing cards it is very necessary to avoid the mistake (commonly made by maudlin humanitarians and Free Traders) of permitting your opponent to win the game. You must have grit and snap and GO IN TO WIN. The days of idealism and superstition are over. We live in a time of science and hard common sense, and it has now been definitely proved that in any game where two are playing IF ONE DOES NOT WIN THE OTHER WILL.” It is all very stirring, of course; but I confess that if I were playing cards I would rather have some decent little book which told me the rules of the game. Beyond the rules of the game it is all a question either of talent or dishonesty; and I will undertake to provide either one or the other— which, it is not for me to say.
Turning over a popular magazine, I find a queer and amusing example. There is an article called “The Instinct that Makes People Rich.” It is decorated in front with a formidable portrait of Lord Rothschild. There are many definite methods, honest and dishonest, which make people rich; the only “instinct” I know of which does it is that instinct which theological Christianity crudely describes as “the sin of avarice.” That, however, is beside the present point. I wish to quote the following exquisite paragraphs as a piece of typical advice as to how to succeed. It is so practical; it leaves so little doubt about what should be our next step—
La fallacia del successo
G. K. Chesterton
Estratto da TUTTE LE COSE DA TENERE PRESENTI di G.K. Chesterton, da un’edizione della John Lane Company, New York, 1909.
Questo testo è stato trascritto da Rob Szarka.
Nel nostro tempo è apparsa una particolare classe di libri e articoli che io sinceramente e solennemente penso possano essere chiamati i più sciocchi mai conosciuti tra gli uomini. Sono molto più selvaggi dei romanzi cavallereschi più selvaggi e molto più noiosi del trattato religioso più noioso. Inoltre, i romanzi cavallereschi erano almeno sui cavalieri; i trattati religiosi sono sulla religione. Ma queste cose non sono su nulla; sono sul cosiddetto Successo. Su ogni bancarella di libri, in ogni rivista, si possono trovare opere che insegnano alle persone come avere successo. Sono libri che mostrano agli uomini come avere successo in tutto; sono scritti da uomini che non riescono nemmeno a scrivere libri. Per cominciare, naturalmente, non esiste una cosa chiamata Successo. O, se preferite dirlo così, non c’è nulla che non abbia successo. Che una cosa abbia successo significa semplicemente che esiste; un milionario ha successo nell’essere un milionario e un asino nell’essere un asino. Ogni uomo vivo ha avuto successo nel vivere; ogni uomo morto può aver avuto successo nel commettere suicidio. Ma, passando sopra alla cattiva logica e alla cattiva filosofia della frase, possiamo prenderla, come fanno questi scrittori, nel senso ordinario di successo nell’ottenere denaro o posizione mondana. Questi scrittori si propongono di dire all’uomo comune come può avere successo nel suo commercio o speculazione: come, se è un costruttore, può avere successo come costruttore; come, se è un agente di cambio, può avere successo come tale. Si propongono di mostrargli come, se è un droghiere, possa diventare uno sportivo con una barca a vela; come, se è un giornalista di decima categoria, possa diventare un pari del regno; e come, se è un ebreo tedesco, possa diventare anglosassone. Questa è una proposta definita e commerciale, e penso davvero che le persone che comprano questi libri (se qualcuno li compra) abbiano il diritto morale, se non legale, di chiedere indietro i loro soldi. Nessuno oserebbe pubblicare un libro sull’elettricità che letteralmente non dica nulla sull’elettricità; nessuno oserebbe pubblicare un articolo sulla botanica che mostri che lo scrittore non sa quale estremità di una pianta cresce nella terra. Eppure il nostro mondo moderno è pieno di libri sul Successo e sulle persone di successo che letteralmente non contengono alcun tipo di idea, e appena un po’ di senso verbale.
È perfettamente ovvio che in qualsiasi onesta occupazione (come la muratura o lo scrivere libri) ci sono solo due modi (in un senso particolare) di avere successo. Uno è fare un lavoro molto buono, l’altro è imbrogliare. Entrambi sono troppo semplici per richiedere spiegazioni letterarie. Se partecipi al salto in alto, o salti più in alto di chiunque altro, oppure riesci a far credere che lo hai fatto. Se vuoi avere successo nel whist, o devi essere un buon giocatore di whist, oppure gioca con le carte segnate. Puoi voler un libro sul salto; puoi voler un libro sul whist; puoi voler un libro su come imbrogliare al whist. Ma non puoi volere un libro sull’successo. Soprattutto, non puoi volere un libro sull’successo come quelli che ora trovi sparsi a centinaia sul mercato dei libri. Puoi voler saltare o giocare a carte; ma non vuoi leggere affermazioni vaghe nel senso che il salto è salto, o che le partite si vincono con i vincitori. Se questi scrittori, per esempio, dicessero qualcosa sull’successo nel salto sarebbe qualcosa del genere: “Il saltatore deve avere un obiettivo chiaro davanti a sé. Deve desiderare definitivamente di saltare più in alto degli altri uomini che sono nello stesso concorso. Non deve lasciare che deboli sentimenti di pietà (introdotti dai disgustosi Little Englanders e Pro-Boeri) gli impediscano di CERCARE DI FARE DEL SUO MEGLIO. Deve ricordare che un concorso di salto è distintamente competitivo, e che, come Darwin ha gloriosamente dimostrato, I PIÙ DEBOLI VENGONO SCONFITTI.” Questo è il tipo di cosa che direbbe il libro, e sarebbe molto utile, senza dubbio, se letto a voce bassa e tesa a un giovane proprio sul punto di fare il salto in alto. O supponiamo che nel corso dei suoi vagabondaggi intellettuali il filosofo del successo si imbattesse nel nostro altro caso, quello del gioco delle carte, i suoi consigli tonici sarebbero: “Nel giocare a carte è molto necessario evitare l’errore (commesso comunemente da umanitari sentimentali e fautori del libero scambio) di permettere al tuo avversario di vincere la partita. Devi avere coraggio e decisione e ANDARE A VINCE. I giorni dell’idealismo e della superstizione sono finiti. Viviamo in un tempo di scienza e buon senso, ed è stato ormai definitivamente provato che in qualsiasi gioco dove due giocano SE UNO NON VINCE L’ALTRO VINCERÀ.” È tutto molto emozionante, certo; ma confesso che se stessi giocando a carte preferirei avere qualche decente libretto che mi dicesse le regole del gioco. Oltre alle regole del gioco è tutta una questione di talento o disonestà; e mi impegno a fornire l’uno o l’altra— che non sta a me dire quale.
Sfogliando una rivista popolare, trovo un esempio strano e divertente. C’è un articolo intitolato “L’istinto che rende le persone ricche”. È decorato in prima pagina con un formidabile ritratto di Lord Rothschild. Esistono molti metodi definitivi, onesti e disonesti, che rendono le persone ricche; l’unico “istinto” che conosco che lo fa è quello che il cristianesimo teologico descrive in modo grossolano come “il peccato dell’avarizia”. Questo, tuttavia, non riguarda il punto attuale. Voglio citare i seguenti paragrafi squisiti come un esempio di consiglio tipico su come avere successo. È così pratico; lascia così poco dubbio su quale dovrebbe essere il nostro prossimo passo—
The name of Vanderbilt is synonymous with wealth gained by modern enterprise. ‘Cornelius,’ the founder of the family, was the first of the great American magnates of commerce. He started as the son of a poor farmer; he ended as a millionaire twenty times over.
He had the money-making instinct. He seized his opportunities, the opportunities that were given by the application of the steam-engine to ocean traffic, and by the birth of railway locomotion in the wealthy but underdeveloped United States of America, and consequently he amassed an immense fortune.
Now it is, of course, obvious that we cannot all follow exactly in the footsteps of this great railway monarch. The precise opportunities that fell to him do not occur to us. Circumstances have changed. But, although this is so, still, in our own sphere and in our own circumstances, we CAN follow his general methods; we can seize those opportunities that are given us, and give ourselves a very fair chance of attaining riches.
In such strange utterances we see quite clearly what is really at the bottom of all these articles and books. It is not mere business; it is not even mere cynicism. It is mysticism; the horrible mysticism of money. The writer of that passage did not really have the remotest notion of how Vanderbilt made his money, or of how anybody else is to make his. He does, indeed, conclude his remarks by advocating some scheme; but it has nothing in the world to do with Vanderbilt. He merely wished to prostrate himself before the mystery of a millionaire. For when we really worship anything, we love not only its clearness but its obscurity. We exult in its very invisibility. Thus, for instance, when a man is in love with a woman he takes special pleasure in the fact that a woman is unreasonable. Thus, again, the very pious poet, celebrating his Creator, takes pleasure in saying that God moves in a mysterious way. Now, the writer of the paragraph which I have quoted does not seem to have had anything to do with a god and I should not think (judging by his extreme unpracticality) that he had ever been really in love with a woman. But the thing he does worship—Vanderbilt— he treats in exactly this mystical manner. He really revels in the fact his deity Vanderbilt is keeping a secret from him. And it fills his soul with a sort of transport of cunning, an ecstasy of priestcraft, that he should pretend to be telling to the multitude that terrible secret which he does not know.
Speaking about the instinct that makes people rich, the same writer remarks—
In the olden days its existence was fully understood. The Greeks enshrined it in the story of Midas, of the ‘Golden Touch.’ Here was a man who turned everything he laid his hands upon into gold. His life was a progress amidst riches. Out of everything that came in his way he created the precious metal. ‘A foolish legend,’ said the wiseacres if the Victorian age. ‘A truth,’ say we of to-day. We all know of such men. We are ever meeting or reading about such persons who turn everything they touch into gold. Success dogs their very footsteps. Their life’s pathway leads unerringly upwards. They cannot fail.
Unfortunately, however, Midas could fail; he did. His path did not lead unerringly upward. He starved because whenever he touched a biscuit or a ham sandwich it turned to gold. That was the whole point of the story, though the writer has to suppress it delicately, writing so near to a portrait of Lord Rothschild. The old fables of mankind are, indeed, unfathomably wise; but we must not have them expurgated in the interests of Mr. Vanderbilt. We must not have King Midas represented as an example of success; he was a failure of an unusually painful kind. Also, he had the ears of an ass. Also (like most other prominent and wealthy persons) he endeavoured to conceal the fact. It was his barber (if I remember right) who had to be treated on a confidential footing with regard to this peculiarity; and his barber, instead of behaving like a go-ahead person of the Succeed-at-all-costs school and trying to blackmail King Midas, went away and whispered this splendid piece of society scandal to the reeds, who enjoyed it enormously. It is said that they also whispered it as the winds swayed them to and fro. I look reverently at the portrait of Lord Rothschild; I read reverently about the exploits of Mr. Vanderbilt. I know that I cannot turn everything I touch to gold; but then I also know that I have never tried, having a preference for other substances, such as grass, and good wine. I know that these people have certainly succeeded in something; that they have certainly overcome somebody; I know that they are kings in a sense that no men were ever kings before; that they create markets and bestride continents. Yet it always seems to me that there is some small domestic fact that they are hiding, and I have sometimes thought I heard upon the wind the laughter and whisper of the reeds.
Il nome Vanderbilt è sinonimo di ricchezza acquisita con l’impresa moderna. “Cornelius”, il fondatore della famiglia, fu il primo dei grandi magnati americani del commercio. Iniziò come figlio di un povero agricoltore; finì per diventare milionario venti volte.
Aveva l’istinto per fare soldi. Afferrò le sue opportunità, quelle offerte dall’applicazione della macchina a vapore al traffico oceanico e dalla nascita del trasporto ferroviario negli Stati Uniti d’America, ricchi ma sottosviluppati, e di conseguenza accumulò un immensa fortuna.
Ora è ovvio che non possiamo tutti seguire esattamente le orme di questo grande re delle ferrovie. Le opportunità precise che gli si presentarono non ci si presentano. Le circostanze sono cambiate. Ma, anche se così è, tuttavia, nella nostra sfera e nelle nostre circostanze, POSSIAMO seguire i suoi metodi generali; possiamo cogliere le opportunità che ci vengono date e darci una buona possibilità di raggiungere la ricchezza.
In tali strane dichiarazioni vediamo con assoluta chiarezza ciò che si trova realmente al fondo di tutti questi articoli e libri. Non è semplice affarismo; non è nemmeno semplicemente cinismo. È misticismo; il terribile misticismo del denaro. L’autore di quel passaggio in realtà non aveva la più pallida idea di come Vanderbilt avesse fatto i suoi soldi, o di come chiunque altro potesse farli. Egli conclude infatti le sue osservazioni proponendo un qualche piano; ma questo non ha nulla a che vedere con Vanderbilt. Egli desiderava semplicemente prostrarsi davanti al mistero del milionario. Perché quando adoriamo veramente qualcosa, amiamo non solo la sua chiarezza ma anche la sua oscurità. Ci esaltiamo nella sua stessa invisibilità. Così, per esempio, quando un uomo è innamorato di una donna, prova particolare piacere nel fatto che le donne siano irragionevoli. Così ancora il poeta molto pio, celebrando il suo Creatore, trova piacere nel dire che Dio si muove in modo misterioso. Ora, l’autore del paragrafo da me citato non sembra aver avuto nulla a che fare con un dio e non credo (valutandone la estrema mancanza di praticità) che sia mai stato veramente innamorato di una donna. Ma ciò che egli adora, Vanderbilt, lo tratta proprio in questo modo mistico. Egli si compiace davvero del fatto che il suo dio Vanderbilt gli stia tenendo un segreto. E riempie la sua anima con una sorta di trasporto astuto, un’estasi da sacerdote, nel fingere di rivelare alla moltitudine quel terribile segreto che non conosce.
Parlando dell’istinto che rende le persone ricche, lo stesso autore osserva…
Nei tempi antichi la sua esistenza era pienamente compresa. I Greci l’hanno immortalata nella storia di Mida, del “Tocco d’Oro”. Ecco un uomo che trasformava in oro tutto ciò a cui poneva mano. La sua vita era un progresso tra le ricchezze. Da ogni cosa che gli capitava tra le mani creava il prezioso metallo. ‘Una leggenda sciocca’, dicevano i sapientoni dell’era vittoriana. ‘Una verità’, diciamo noi di oggi. Tutti conosciamo uomini del genere. Incontriamo sempre o leggiamo di persone che trasformano in oro tutto ciò a cui toccano. Il successo seguono i loro passi. La strada della vita li conduce senza errore verso l’alto. Non possono fallire.
Sfortunatamente, però, Mida poteva fallire; e fallì. Il suo sentiero non condusse infallibilmente verso l’alto. Egli morì di fame perché ogni volta che toccava un biscotto o un panino al prosciutto, quello si tramutava in oro. Era questo l’intero senso della storia, per quanto lo scrittore debba sopprimerlo con delicatezza, scrivendo così vicino a un ritratto di Lord Rothschild. Le antiche favole dell’umanità sono, invero, insondabilmente sagge; ma non dobbiamo lasciarcele espurgare nell’interesse del signor Vanderbilt. Non dobbiamo lasciar rappresentare re Mida come un esempio di successo; egli fu un fallito di specie insolitamente penosa. Inoltre, aveva le orecchie d’asino. Inoltre (come la maggior parte delle altre persone eminenti e facoltose) si sforzava di celare il fatto. Fu il suo barbiere (se ben ricordo) a dover essere trattato in confidenza riguardo a questa particolarità; e il suo barbiere, invece di comportarsi come un intraprendente adepto della scuola del Riesci-a-ogni-costo e di provare a ricattare re Mida, se ne andò e sussurrò questo splendido pettegolezzo mondano alle canne, che se ne dilettarono immensamente. Si dice che anch’esse lo sussurrassero mentre i venti le facevano ondeggiare avanti e indietro. Io guardo con reverenza il ritratto di Lord Rothschild; leggo con reverenza le imprese del signor Vanderbilt. So di non poter trasformare in oro tutto ciò che tocco; ma so anche di non averci mai provato, avendo una predilezione per altre sostanze, come l’erba e il buon vino. So che questa gente ha certamente avuto successo in qualcosa; che ha certamente sopraffatto qualcuno; so che sono re in un senso in cui nessun uomo fu mai re prima; che creano mercati e scavalcano continenti. Eppure mi sembra sempre che vi sia qualche piccolo fatto domestico che essi vanno celando, e talvolta ho creduto di udire sul vento la risata e il sussurro delle canne.
At least, let us hope that we shall all live to see these absurd books about Success covered with a proper derision and neglect. They do not teach people to be successful, but they do teach people to be snobbish; they do spread a sort of evil poetry of worldliness. The Puritans are always denouncing books that inflame lust; what shall we say of books that inflame the viler passions of avarice and pride? A hundred years ago we had the ideal of the Industrious Apprentice; boys were told that by thrift and work they would all become Lord Mayors. This was fallacious, but it was manly, and had a minimum of moral truth. In our society, temperance will not help a poor man to enrich himself, but it may help him to respect himself. Good work will not make him a rich man, but good work may make him a good workman. The Industrious Apprentice rose by virtues few and narrow indeed, but still virtues. But what shall we say of the gospel preached to the new Industrious Apprentice; the Apprentice who rises not by his virtues, but avowedly by his vices?
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Last modified: 19th July, 2006 Martin Ward, Software Technology Research Lab, De Montfort University, Leicester. Email: martin@gkc.org.uk
Almeno, speriamo di vivere tutti abbastanza a lungo da vedere questi assurdi libri sul Successo ricoperti di una giusta derisione e dimenticanza. Essi non insegnano alla gente a riuscire, ma le insegnano a essere snob; diffondono una sorta di malvagia poesia della mondanità. I Puritani denunciano di continuo i libri che infiammano la lussuria; che cosa diremo dei libri che infiammano le passioni più vili dell’avarizia e dell’orgoglio? Cento anni fa avevamo l’ideale del Garzone Diligente; ai ragazzi si diceva che con parsimonia e lavoro sarebbero tutti diventati Lord Sindaci. Era fallace, ma era virile, e conteneva un minimo di verità morale. Nella nostra società la temperanza non aiuterà un uomo povero ad arricchirsi, ma può aiutarlo a rispettare se stesso. Il buon lavoro non ne farà un uomo ricco, ma il buon lavoro può farne un buon lavoratore. Il Garzone Diligente si elevava grazie a virtù invero poche e anguste, ma pur sempre virtù. Ma che cosa diremo del vangelo predicato al nuovo Garzone Diligente; il Garzone che si eleva non per le sue virtù, ma dichiaratamente per i suoi vizi?