“Idreadtocometotheendoftheyear,”saidafriendtomerecently,“itmakesmerealizeIamgrowingold.”
WilliamJames,thegreatpsychologist,saidthatmostmenare“oldfogiesattwenty-five”,Hewasright.Mostmenattwenty-fivearesatisfiedwiththeirjobs.Theyhaveaccumulatedthelittlestockofprejudicesthattheycalltheir“Principles,”andclosedtheirmindstoallnewideas;theyhaveceasedtogrow.Ontheotherhand,thereallygreatmannevergrowsold.
Goethepassedoutateighty-three,andfinishedhisFaustonlyafewyearsearlier;Gladstonetookupanewlanguagewhenhewasseventy.Laplace,theastronomer,wasstillatworkwhendeathcaughtupwithhimatseventy-eight.Hediedcrying,“Whatweknowisnothing;whatwedonotknowisimmense.”
Andthereyouhavetherealanswertothequestion,“Whenisamanold?”
Laplaceatseventy-eightdiedyoung.Hewasstillunsatisfied,stillsurethathehadalottolearn.
Aslongasamancankeephimselfinthatattitudeofmind,aslongashecanlookbackoneveryyearandsay,“Igrew,”heisstillyoung.
Theminuteheceasestogrow,theminutehesaystohimself,“IknowallthatIneedtoknow,”—thatdayyouthstops.Hemaybetwenty-fiveorseventy-five,itmakesnodifference.Onthatdayhebeginstobeold.
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