2009年3月24日 星期二

Old Age


After return back from climbing the Mountain Kinabalu, I realize that I am not a young man anymore; I am growing old now. Psychologically there are two dangers to be guarded against in old age. One of these is undue absorption in the past. It does not do to live in memories, in regrets for the good old days, or in sadness about friends who are dead. One’s thoughts must be directed to the future and to things about which there is something to be done. This is not always easy; one’s emotions used to be more vivid than they are and one’s mind keener. If this is true it should be forgotten and if it is forgotten it will probably not be true.

The other thing to be avoided is clinging to youth in the hope of sucking vigor from its vitality. When your children are grown up they want to live their own lives and if you continue to be as interested in them as you were when they were young, you are likely to become a burden to them, unless they are unusually callous I do not mean that one should be without interest in them, but one’s interest should be contemplative and if possible, philanthropic, but not unduly emotional. Animals become indifferent to their young as soon as their young can look after themselves, but human beings, owing to the length of infancy, find this difficult.

I think that a successful old age is easiest for those who have strong impersonal interests involving appropriate activities. It is in this sphere that long experience is really fruitful and it is in this sphere that the wisdom born of experience can be exercise without being oppressive. It is no use telling grown-up children not to make mistakes, both because they will not believe you and because mistakes are an essential part of education. But if you are one of those who are incapable of impersonal interests, you may find that your life will be empty unless you concern yourself with your children and grandchildren. In that case you must realize that while you can still render them material services, such as making them an allowance or knitting those jumpers, you must not expect that they will enjoy your company.

Some old people are oppressed by the fear of death. In the young there is a justification for this feeling. Young men who have reason to fear that they will be killed in battle may justifiably feel biter in the thought that they have been cheated of the best things that life has to offer. But in an old man who has known human joys and sorrow and has achieved whatever work it was in him to do, the fear of death is somewhat abject and ignoble.

The best way to overcome it so at least it seems to me is to make your interests gradually wider ad more impersonal, until bit by bit the universal life. An individual human existence should be like a river small at first, narrowly contained within its banks and rushing passionately past rocks and over waterfalls. Gradually the river grows wider, the banks recede, the waters flow more quietly and in the end, without any visible break, they become merged in the sea and painlessly lose their individual being. The man, who in old age can see his life in this way, will not suffer from the fear of death, since the things he cares for will continue. And if, with the decay of vitality, weariness increases, the thought of rest will not be unwelcome. I should wish to die while still at work, knowing that others will carry on what I can no longer do and content in the thought that what was possible has been done.

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