In July 1931, author and
philosopher Will Durant wrote to a number of notable figures and asked,
essentially, "What is the meaning of life?" His letter concluded:
“Spare me a moment to tell me
what meaning life has for you, what keeps you going, what help—if any—religion
gives you, what are the sources of your inspiration and your energy, what is
the goal or motive-force of your toil, where you find your consolations and
your happiness, where, in the last resort, your treasure lies. Write briefly if
you must; write at length and at leisure if you possibly can; for every word
from you will be precious to me.”
The recipient of one such letter, the great newsman and essayist, H.L. Mencken, responded
as follows:
Dear Durant:
You ask me, in brief, what
satisfaction I get out of life, and why I go on working. I go on working for
the same reason that a hen goes on laying eggs. There is in every living
creature an obscure but powerful impulse to active functioning. Life demands to
be lived. Inaction, save as a measure of recuperation between bursts of
activity, is painful and dangerous to the healthy organism—in fact, it is
almost impossible. Only the dying can be really idle.
The precise form of an
individual’s activity is determined, of course, by the equipment with which he
came into the world. In other words, it is determined by his heredity. I do not
lay eggs, as a hen does, because I was born without any equipment for it. For
the same reason I do not get myself elected to Congress, or play the
violoncello, or teach metaphysics in a college, or work in a steel mill. What I
do is simply what lies easiest to my hand. It happens that I was born with an
intense and insatiable interest in ideas, and thus like to play with them. It
happens also that I was born with rather more than the average facility for
putting them into words. In consequence, I am a writer and editor, which is to
say, a dealer in them and concoctor of them.
There is very little
conscious volition in all this. What I do was ordained by the inscrutable
fates, not chosen by me. In my boyhood, yielding to a powerful but still
subordinate interest in exact facts, I wanted to be a chemist, and at the same
time my poor father tried to make me a business man. At other times, like any
other realtively poor man, I have longed to make a lot of money by some easy
swindle. But I became a writer all the same, and shall remain one until the end
of the chapter, just as a cow goes on giving milk all her life, even though
what appears to be her self-interest urges her to give gin.
I am far luckier than most
men, for I have been able since boyhood to make a good living doing precisely
what I have wanted to do—what I would have done for nothing, and very gladly,
if there had been no reward for it. Not many men, I believe, are so fortunate.
Millions of them have to make their livings at tasks which really do not
interest them. As for me, I have had an extraordinarily pleasant life, despite
the fact that I have had the usual share of woes. For in the midst of these
woes I still enjoyed the immense satisfaction which goes with free activity. I
have done, in the main, exactly what I wanted to do. Its possible effects on
other people have interested me very little. I have not written and published
to please other people, but to satisfy myself, just as a cow gives milk, not to
profit the dairyman, but to satisfy herself. I like to think that most of my
ideas have been sound ones, but I really don’t care. The world may take them or
leave them. I have had my fun hatching them.
Next to agreeable work as a
means of attaining happiness I put what Huxley called the domestic
affections—the day to day intercourse with family and friends. My home has seen
bitter sorrow, but it has never seen any serious disputes, and it has never
seen poverty. I was completely happy with my mother and sister, and I am
completely happy with my wife. Most of the men I commonly associate with are
friends of very old standing. I have known some of them for more than thirty
years. I seldom see anyone, intimately, whom I have known for less than ten
years. These friends delight me. I turn to them when work is done with
unfailing eagerness. We have the same general tastes, and see the world much
alike. Most of them are interestd in music, as I am. It has given me more
pleasure in this life than any external thing. I love it more every year.
As for religion, I am quite
devoid of it. Never in my adult life have I experienced anything that could be
plausibly called a religious impulse. My father and grandfather were agnostics
before me, and though I was sent to Sunday-school as a boy and exposed to the
Christian theology I was never taught to believe it. My father thought that I
should learn what it was, but it apparently never occurred to him that I would
accept it. He was a good psychologist. What I got in Sunday-school—beside a
wide acquaintance with Christian hymnology—was simply a firm conviction that
the Christian faith was full of palpable absurdities, and the Christian God
preposterous. Since that time I have read a great deal in theology—perhaps much
more than the average clergyman—but I have never discovered any reason to
change my mind.
The act of worship, as
carried on by Christians, seems to me to be debasing rather than ennobling. It
involves grovelling before a Being who, if He really exists, deserves to be
denounced instead of respected. I see little evidence in this world of the
so-called goodness of God. On the contrary, it seems to me that, on the
strength of His daily acts, He must be set down a most cruel, stupid and
villainous fellow. I can say this with a clear conscience, for He has treated
me very well—in fact, with vast politeness. But I can’t help thinking of his
barbaric torture of most of the rest of humanity. I simply can’t imagine
revering the God of war and politics, theology and cancer.
I do not believe in immortality,
and have no desire for it. The belief in it issues from the puerile egos of
inferior men. In its Christian form it is little more than a device for getting
revenge upon those who are having a better time on this earth. What the meaning
of human life may be I don’t know: I incline to suspect that it has none. All I
know about it is that, to me at least, it is very amusing while it lasts. Even
its troubles, indeed, can be amusing. Moreover, they tend to foster the human
qualities that I admire most—courage and its analogues. The noblest man, I
think, is that one who fights God, and triumphs over Him. I have had little of
this to do. When I die I shall be content to vanish into nothingness. No show,
however good, could conceivably be good for ever.
Sincerely yours,
H. L. Mencken
No comments:
Post a Comment