As the stroke of the clock tolls the hours, and the sun’s course measures out the years, my life, as I am well aware, draws ever nearer the hour of death. But does it also approach old age, weak and broken old age, of which everyone bitterly complains, when without warning the zest of joyous youth has slipped away, and all health of spirit, all exuberance is gone? Why do men permit life’s golden years to pass, and sighing bend their necks beneath a self-imposed yoke? There was a time when I myself believed the privileges of youth did not befit manhood; I thought to conduct myself quietly and prudently, preparing for years more drab by a wise resolve of renunciation.1 My spirit however, would not content itself within such narrow bounds, and I soon repented this life of bare economy. At the very first summons joyous youth returned, and ever since has held me in its protecting embrace. Were I now convinced that youth would escape me with the flight of years, I should voluntarily hasten to meet an early death, lest fear of certain misery to come embitter every good of the present, and incapacitate my life until finally I deserved an even worse end.
But I know that this cannot be true, because it should not be. Shall the free and immeasurable life of the spirit be spent before the life of the flesh is ended, which contains the seeds of death in its very first pulsations? Shall not my imagination always contemplate beauty with its full and wonted strength? Can I not always count on buoyancy of spirit, responsiveness to good, and warmth of heart? Am I to listen with dread to the waves of time, and see them grind and channel me until I give way? Tell me, O heart, how many times the time just now spent upon this wretched thought may I still expect to live before these horrors come to pass? Could I count them, I should think a thousand times as brief as one. But be not a fool, to prophecy the spirit’s strength in terms of time, for time can never be its measure! The stars in their courses do not traverse equal distances in equal times; you must seek a higher calculus to comprehend their motion. And should the spirit follow meaner laws than they? No, nor does it do so. Old age, soured, bare, and hopeless, fetches many prematurely, and some evil spirit breaks off the bud of their youth before it has scarcely blossomed; others keep their vigor long; though white, their heads are unbowed, a fire still animates their eyes, and happy laughter graces their lips. Why should I not successfully fight off the death that lurks in hiding for me, even longer than he who has maintained his prime the longest? Ignoring the toll of years and the body’s decay, why should I not by sheer force of will cling to youth’s dear divinity until my last breath is drawn? For what is to explain this difference in ageing, if not force of will? Is the spirit forsooth of a finite size and measure, which can be spent and exhausted? Is its strength used up by action and dissipated in every movement? Is it only misers who have been chary of their deeds that enjoy long life? If it be so, let shame and scorn smite all whose old age wears a fresh and happy look; for he deserves scorn who has been miserly with his youth.
Were time actually the measure of man’s life and destiny, I should rather realize all my spiritual possibilities in a brief span; I should want to live a short life that I might keep young and vital while it lasted! What good are rays of light thinly diffused over a wide surface? There can be no revelation of power in them, no effective accomplishment. Of what avail is it to economize and conserve action, if you must weaken its inner content, and if finally you have nothing left anyway? Rather spend your life in a few years with brilliant prodigality, so that you may enjoy the sense of your strength, and be able to survey what you have amounted to. But man’s measure and his destiny are not temporal; the spirit will not submit to such empirical delimitation. For what is there to break its power? What can it lose of its being by activity and by pouring itself out to others? What is there to consume it? I feel myself enriched and clarified by every action, stronger, and more sound; for in every act I receive some nourishment from humanity’s common store, and in the process of growth my nature assumes a more definite character. Is this true only because I am still climbing up the hill of life? Perhaps, but when will this happy condition suddenly be reversed? When shall I begin to decline instead of growing by activity? And how will this great transformation be announced? If it comes, I can not help but recognize it, and if I recognize it, I shall rather choose to die, than to live in protracted misery, beholding in myself the impotence of human existence.2