"in france the old men, especially if of peasant stock, are a joy and an
inspiration to behold. They are like great trees which no storm can dislodge;
they radiate peace, serenity and wisdom. in america the old men are as a rule a
sorry sight, particularly the successful ones....
the exceptions to the rule - and the contrast is abysmal - are the artists, and
by artists i mean the creators, regardless of their field of operation. most of
them begin to develop, to reveal their individuality, after passing the age of
forty-five, the age which most industrial corporations in this country have
fixed as the dead line.
but there is a class of hardy men, old-fashioned enough to have remained rugged
individuals, openly contemptuous of the trend, passionately devoted to their
work, impossible to bribe or seduce, working long hours, often without reward
or fame, who are motivated by a common impulse - the joy of doing as they
please. at some point along the way they separated from the others. the men i
speak of can be detected at a glance: their countenance registers something for
more vital, far more effective, than the lust for power. they do not seek to
dominate, but to realize themselves. they operate from a centre which is at
rest. they evolve, they grow, they give nourishment just by being what they are.
this subject, the relationship between wisdom and vitality, interests me
because, contrary to the general opinion, i have never been able to look upon
america as young and vital but rather as prematurely old, as a fruit which
rotted before it had a chance to ripen. the word which gives the key to the
national vice is waste. and people who are wasteful are not wise, neither can
they remain young and vigorous. in order to transmute energy to higher and more
subtle levels one must first conserve it...
Few are those that can escape the tread-mill. merely to survive in spite of the
set-up, confers no distinction. animals and insects survive when higher types
are threatened with extinction. to live beyond the pale, to work for the
pleasure of working, to grow old gracefully while retaining one's faculties,
one's enthusiasms, one's self-respect, one has to establish other values than
those endorsed by the mob. it takes an artist to make this breach in the wall.
AN ARTIST IS PRIMARILY ONE WHO HAS FAITH IN HIMSELF (my emph). he does not
respond to the normal stimuli: he is neither a drudge nor a parasite. he lives
to express himself and in doing so he enriches the world.
from 'the air-conditioned nightmare' by henry valentino miller
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