Wake Up and Live - Chapter 3 - Victims of the Will to Fail

(Excerpt from The Strangest Secret Library – available on
Amazon.)
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Victims of The Will to Fail - 1
Chapter 3
IF the Will to Fall announced its presence with symptoms
as uniform and unmistakable as those which indicate
measles or a bad cold, it would probably have been
eradicated, or a technique for combating it would have been
worked out, long ago.
But unfortunately its symptoms are varied and legion. If
you were to drag a dining, dancing, theater-going, middle-
aged metropolitan playboy away from his merry-go-round
and introduce him to an unshaven, ill-clad cracker-box
philosopher dreaming in the sun, saying, "I want you two to
know each other; you have so much in common," you would
be thought mad, yet you would be right. The dreaming idler,
the introvert, and the dancing extrovert - at the antipodes
from the point of view of worldly circumstance - are
motivated by the same impulse; unconsciously they are
both trying to fail.
Their lives have a common denominator. "Do not act as if
you had a thousand years to live," Marcus Aurelius warned
himself in his maxims. All those in the grip of the Will to
Fail act as if they had a thousand years before them.
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Whether they dream or dance, they spend their precious
hours as though the store of them were inexhaustible.
But since there are as many ways of failing as there are
divisions and subdivisions of the psychological types, we
often do not recognize the presence of the Will to Fail in
others or in ourselves. Here are a few of the innumerable
ways of "acting as though you had a thousand years to
live":
There are, for instance, those who sleep from two to six
hours a day more than they need to sleep to keep in perfect
physical health. In any individual case, unless the sleeping
hours far exceed the normal quota, it is very hard to be sure
one has not to do with merely an unusually long sleeper.
But when the note of compulsion enters, one can be sure of
having found a true victim of failure. Those who are bad-
tempered or only half alive if an early bedtime must be
postponed, those who anxiously count each morning the
exact number of hours spent in sleep the night before,
mourning inconsolably any interruption, every hour of
insomnia, every untimely doorbell, are looking to sleep for
more than its normal restorative function. When an adult
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extends even this, making a nap or two a day a matter of
routine, the diagnosis becomes simple.
Next, still among the inconspicuous failures, the
"introverts," are the waking sleepers: persons who allow
some activity to pass before them almost without
participation, or indulge in time-killing pursuits in which
they take only the most minor and unconstructive parts: the
solitaire-players, the pathological bookworms, the endless
crossword puzzlers, the jigsaw puzzle contingent. The line
between recreation and obsession is not hard to see once we
know it is there.
Easiest of all to recognize as lovers of failure are the heavy
drinkers. A volume could be written on them, but too many
volumes have. Where drinking is so constant as to bring on
a waking sleep, or, deeper, a kind of death in life, the
presence of the Will to Fail is obvious to any observer. But
there are thousands who show the symptoms in so faint a
form that they pass almost unnoticed: all those who drink
knowing that it means a bad morning the next day, a vague
and woolly approach to every problem until the effects have
passed off; those to whom any drinking means physical
discomfort, whether acute or trifling. Anyone who has
learned to expect these consequences and yet continues to

lay himself open to them stands convicted of the desire to
handicap himself, at least to that extent. It makes very little
difference what the drink in question may be. If coffee
disturbs you, if you cannot digest milk, and you
nevertheless continue to drink it, you may escape the
disapproval which is meted out to the highball drinker, but
you are in the same class. And, plainly, unwise eating comes
under the same head.
Turning to the active type, it may be said that the extroverts
who pursue failure as their primary career find so many
ways of doing it that the attempt to tabulate them all would
be hopeless. But, as examples, there are the relentless
movie-and theater-goers, the nightly dancers, all those who
count the day lost which has not a tea or dinner or cocktail
party in it . . . No, of course there is nothing against
relaxation and recreation when they are really called for,
after a period of contributory activity. But those who enter
an objection to this classification too early and too angrily,
crying that one must have recreation, give themselves dead
away as setting an abnormal value on release.
Then there are the half-and-half failures, difficult to place,
such as the embroiderers and knitters, although it is only

fair to say here that sometimes a light task calling for only
manual dexterity may go on while the mind is usefully
engaged in solving a real problem. Complete honesty with
oneself is all that is necessary to discover whether the
rhythmical activity is being used in one way or the other. If
a dull stupor sets in, or if, on the other hand, the work is
just elaborate enough, calls for just enough conscious
attention so that no automatic rhythm can be established,
then it is rare indeed that this kind of motion can be put in
the category of true creative activity, or that of being
accessory to creative action.
As to aimless conversationalists, we can more easily see
others fall in that group than that we are included ourselves.
Sometimes we are startled into realizing that we have
repeated the same anecdote to the same friend and for a few
days go warily. That is a minor slip. No reminiscent ring, no
forced smile on our auditor's lips will stop us when we are
habitually marking time with words - when we have the
same unevolving round of topics, the same opinions to
repeat mechanically, the same half-aimless observations to
make on the same recurring situations, the same automatic
indignation at the same old abuses, the same illustrations to
prove the same points, and a few lukewarm arguments to

bolster up what may once have been opinions but are now
seldom more than prejudices.
Sometimes we ride a verbal mannerism so hard that a
hearer objects irritably.
(Suggestions for overcoming such mannerisms will be given
later; here we are only considering the way in which they
unconsciously betray in us the presence of a Will to Fail.) It
is probably a great piece of luck to rouse a friend to this
extent. If you learn with shocking suddenness that you are
forever saying "I mean," "Of course," "I imagine," "Do you
see?" "You know," "As a matter of fact," you are likely to
listen to your own voice for a period and discover that not
only do these tag words occur over and over in your
conversation, but that there is nothing particularly fresh or
valuable about the ideas they have served to embellish.
Here, as in the other categories, it is very easy to see that
there is something wrong when one meets gross examples
of the difficulty; an hysterical talker is obviously mentally
ill. But that there are subtler forms of the same trouble,
often hidden for years because we do our repeating to
constantly changing audiences, seldom dawns on us.

There are still more obscure and unnoticeable ways of
falling victim to the Will to Fail, ways to which introverts
and extroverts are almost equally susceptible. Consider the
innumerable persons, for instance, who deliberately
undertake work which calls for only a small part of their
abilities and training, and who then drive themselves
relentlessly, exhausting themselves over useless details.
There are the takers of eternal post-graduate courses,
turning up on the campus year after year like so many
Flying Dutchmen.
There are the "devoted" daughters and sons and mothers
and wives (fathers are seldom found here, for some reason,
although there may be an occasional husband) who pour
out their lives into the lives of other adults, but whose
offering, since they have never truly developed what was
most valuable in themselves, adds no richness and only
unimportant comfort to the objects of their "self-sacrifice."
There are those who undertake a task known by them to be
beyond their powers, or engage in a specious "research"
problem: there is a man in New York, for example, who has
been gathering biographical details about an obscure Italian
statesman since his sophomore year in college. This pseudo-

biographer is now in his late forties, and not one word of
that definitive Life has been written.
Perhaps the greatest class of all those whose goal is failure is
that of the Universal Charmers. When you find yourself in
the presence of more charm than the situation calls for, you
are safe in saying to yourself, "Ah, a failure!" This is no
diatribe against genuine warm-heartedness, against
friendliness, or true sweetness of character. We are talking
now about the Harold Skimpoles of the world, about the
cajoling, winsome adult, either man or woman, who insists
on being accepted by his or her contemporaries as just a
great, big, delightful child - irresponsible, perhaps, not very
thoughtful, but so exceedingly lovable, even to strangers!
There are the whimsical teases and the humorous
complainers, and if they are good to look at, quick-witted or
amusing, they are more likely than not to be successful in
arousing a momentary indulgence, a tolerant tenderness.
It is only in retrospect that one realizes there was no valid
reason for the moment's emotion. A healthy adult does not
need the tenderness or indulgence of every casual
acquaintance. Except for a guilty conscience, no one would
ever dream of making a play for this kind of response. These

victims are under the hard necessity of working at charm as
convicts work at stone-crushing; they must go on being
more and more charming to offset their waning attractions,
or face the truth - admit that they have not adequately
discharged their responsibilities. As long as their
inadequacy is never seen except mirrored in the indulgent
eyes of another they can go on without admitting the fact
that they are failing. So on they go, cheating their way
through life - unless by good fortune they can come to see
who really suffers most from the exercise of their charm.
So there are all these ways, and innumerable others, of
filling one's time with seemingly purposeless activity, or a
falsely purposeful routine, and they are all the result of
submitting to the Will to Fail.
For, remember, these activities are only apparently
purposeless. There is in every case a deep intention, which
may be stated in many ways.
We may say that the most obvious intention is to beguile the
world into believing that we are living up to our fullest
capacity. This is particularly true of those cases where the
outward life is full of a thousand little matters, or one big
job of drudgery conscientiously done. No one, surely, could

ask us to do more than we are doing? Are we not plainly so
busy that we have not one minute or a grain of strength to
do anything more? Is it not our duty to do the dull,
insignificant, unsatisfying task thoroughly? Those are
questions which only the individual can answer honestly for
himself, usually in the hours of insomnia or convalescence,
when the mind which is usually so engrossed about trivial
affairs finds time to stop and consider.
In the long run it makes little difference how cleverly others
are deceived; if we are not doing what we are best equipped
to do, or doing well what we have undertaken as our
personal contribution to the world's work, at least by way of
an earnestly followed avocation, there will be a core of
unhappiness in our lives which will be more and more
difficult to ignore as the years pass.
The fritterers and players and the drudging workers are
bent mainly on deceiving themselves, on filling every nook
and cranny of their waking hours so that there is no spot
where a suspicion of futility can leak through. And at night,
of course, they are either still hard at play or too exhausted
to consider realities. Yet such victims present a dreadful
spectacle when once they are plainly seen - seen as insane

misers, stuffing a senseless accumulation of trash, odds and
ends of sensations, experiences, fads and enthusiasms,
synthetic emotions, into the priceless coffer of their one
irreplaceable lifetime.
Whatever the ostensible purpose may be, it is plain that one
motive is at work in all these cases: the intention, often
unconscious, to fill life so full of secondary activities or
substitute activities that there will be no time in which to
perform the best work, of which one is capable. The
intention, in short, is to fail.

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Wake Up and Live - Chapter 3 - Victims of the Will to Fail