“This above all: To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.”
The
old man shook a gnarled finger at me. His snowy beard wagged as he
gulped for air, somewhat overcome by his own animation.
“Good
Polonius,” I say, helping him to a velvet-upholstered armchair. “I
thank you for your advice. But if we all followed such precepts, what
kind of world would we have? A me-first sort of place, full of ego
and ambition. No one would hesitate to take advantage of his fellows
in order to further his own goals. Violence, cruelty, indifference—to
an even greater extent than we already have.”
“Nay,
child, 'tis not so. Although I am known as a taciturn and reticent
individual, a man of few words who would never vaunt his wisdom or
pretend to superior understanding, I cannot refrain from enlightening
you and demonstrating the validity of my counsel.”
“Indeed,
sir, I wait upon your explanation.” It occurs to me to wonder why
I've adopted such antiquated speech patterns, but then, I'm easily
influenced. When I visit my relatives in South Carolina, I find
myself unconsciously adopting a southern accent. When I'm in New York
City, I'm often mistaken for a native.
“As
you have truly observed, the world is a sorry place, rife with
horrific crimes against God and society that sadden and sicken the
hearts of virtuous men such as I. The hard-won wealth of industrious
men is squandered and pilfered by perfidious financiers. Did I not
say, neither a borrower nor a lender be? Headless bodies are
unearthed, the scourge of the undeclared wars between rival purveyors
of addictive intoxicants. Every day, it seems, we hear tell of some
misguided fanatic hoist with his own petard, taking scores of
innocents to hell along with him.
Some
would argue that the perpetrators of such evil deeds suffer from an
excess of self-love. In pursuing personal goals, be it glory, riches
or power, the villains care not whom they deprive of life or
livelihood. Their overarching egoism permits any injury to another.
The desires and dreams of others matter not a whit should such
desires stand in opposition to the criminal's objectives.”
“Exactly
my point.” I slip in my comment as the elderly Dane is gathering
his breath for another paragraph or two. “Self-love leads to many
ills.”
“You
are deluded, daughter, if I may be allowed to say so. I believe that
every individual is entitled to hold his or her opinion, however
ridiculous, and it is not my place to correct them. Give every man
thy ear, but few thy voice, that is my motto. Nevertheless I cannot
allow you to persist in such an unfortunate misunderstanding.”
“Yes,
sir?” I know I will receive enlightenment whether I agree with him
or not.
“These
vile creatures who are responsible of the crimes of which we speak,
do you think they love themselves? I will be brief. These persons are
propelled not by self-appreciation but by self-doubt, inadequacy, an
insufficient regard for their own worth which drives them to try and
prove that they are better than their peers. It matters not how
often they triumph, how full their coffers, how many they slay. No
deed, however marvelous or vicious, can assuage their deep-buried
convictions of their own worthlessness.”
“So
you are of the opinion that self-love engenders virtue rather than
vice?”
The
elder's cheeks were pink with exertion. He gestured with such energy
that, had he a sword, he might well have cut me to the quick.
“I
would represent my position not as mere opinion, a bauble to be
tossed about in the tavern by drunken wastrels, but as manifest
truth. Think on it: what said our Lord Jesus Christ? 'Thou shalt love
thy neighbor as thyself.'”
“Sir,
I do not think it is advisable to descend into religious arguments on
this blog...”
“This
is not religion, you green girl, 'tis merely common sense. How is it
possible to be considerate, compassionate, generous, if one is not at
one's own ease? How can I care for my neighbor unless I care for
myself? Kindness toward others is the fruit of self-love, as are
respect and affection.
"If
you suffer from the belief of that you are inferior, others appear
only as threats. Their accomplishments and their worldly possessions
accuse you. Voracious envy gnaws your heart. Suspicion cloud your
eyes. Believing that you have little, you live in fear that it will
be taken from you. Suffering from a sense of lack, you attack those
who enjoy the blessings of which you feel you have been deprived.
“Self-love
protects a man from this terror. Knowing one's worth, one can
appreciate the worthy deeds of one's fellows. A man who is true to
himself can afford to be even-tempered, tolerant, charitable. He can
follow my oft-dispensed counsel: take every man's censure, but
reserve thy judgment. He can share his bounty, loving his neighbor as
the Scriptures dictate, because he is confident that no one can
deprive him of the love he bears himself.”
Despite
his volubility, the old man made some sense. “Well...”
“Think
on thine own case, wench. You are a scribbler, I believe, penning
fantastic tales for the ignorant masses.”
“Well,
I'd like to imagine that my readers are not ignorant...”
“No
matter, that is not the meat of the matter. I have heard that you
are quite willing to help other authors, are you not? You write peer
reviews, offer critiques, share information on opportunities for
promulgating news of their activities and for disseminating their own
scribbles, and so on, do you not?”
“Um—yes,
but I don't see...”
“I
beg you not to interrupt your elders, girl, when they are attempting
to share their hard-won wisdom!”
“Sorry.
I offer my apologies, good Polonius.”
“I
accept them graciously as is my wont. Beware of entrance to a
quarrel, I always say. Where was I? Oh yes. You are moderately
generous with your time and your energy. You do not feel that these
other authors are your enemies, do you?”
“No,
of course not! I am happy to provide assistance where I can. Many
people have helped me. It is only just that I reciprocate,
maintaining the flow of positive deeds.”
“You
do not envy other authors' success?”
“Perhaps
a bit, but I know that in most cases they have worked hard to achieve
what renown they may claim.”
“And
what do you think about your own writing ability?”
“Well,
to be honest, I have a fairly high opinion of my work. I know that I
am not a great artist – I'll never be a William Shakespeare – but
when the inspiration hits, I can write a spicy tale that entertains.”
“You
see, you love yourself. You believe yourself to be worthy, in the
realm of your writing at least. This allows you to share your time
with other writers without feeling threatened. You are true to
yourself and hence you cannot be false to your fellows.”
“Hmm.
I suppose that you may be right, sir.”
“Of
course I am right. Videlicet, a sage, well-tempered in the ways of
men, bearing the benedictions of age along with its burdens. But the
king calls me, no doubt to solicit my counsel. I must hasten to his
chamber. Farewell, Lisabet, and remember well what I have said to
you.”
“'Tis
in my memory locked, and you yourself shall keep the key to it.”
“Good
girl.”
“But
Polonius, sir, if I might offer you some advice of my own...”
“What
is it, child? Be brief.”
“Do
not be too curious or eager to spy. And stay away from the curtains.”
