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My Life Is Over

Nevertheless,my life is over.

What a little thing! I knew the philosophers had spoken； I repeated their musical phrases about the mortal span—yet never till now believed them. And this is all? A man’s life can be so brief and so vain? Idly would I persuade myself that life, in the true sense, is only now beginning； that the time of sweat and fear was not life at all, and that is now only depends upon my will to lead a worthy existence. That may be a sort of consolation, but it does not obscure the truth that I shall never again see possibilities and promises opening before me. I have “retired，” and for me as truly as for the retired trades man, life is over. I can look back upon its completed course, and what a little thing! I am tempted to laugh； I hold myself within the limit of a smile.

And that is best, to smile not in scorn, but in all for bearance, without too much self-compassion. After all, that dreadful aspect of the thing never really took hold of me； I could put it by without much effort. Life is done-and what matter? Whether it has been, in sum, painful or enjoyable, even now I cannot say-a fact which in itself should prevent me from taking the loss too seriously. What does it matter? Destiny with the hidden face decreed that I should come into being, play my little part, and pass again into silence； is mine either to approve or to rebel? Let me be grateful that I have suffered no intolerablewrong, no terrible woe of flesh or spirit, such as other-alas! Alas! — have found in their lot. Is it not much to have accomplished so large a part of the mortal journey with so much ease? If I find myself astonished at its brevity and small significance, why, that is my own fault； the voices of those gone before had sufficiently warned me. Better to see the truth now, and accept it, than to fall into dread surprise on some day of weakness, and foolishly to cry against fate. I will be glad rather than sorry, and think of the thing no more.

The Love of Beauty

The love of beauty is an essential part of all healthy human nature. It is a moral quality. The absence of it is not an assured ground of condemnation, but the presence of it is an invariable sign of goodness of heart. In proportion to the degree in which it is felt will probably be the degree in which nobleness and beauty of character will be attained.

Natural beauty is an all-pervading presence. The universe is its temple. It unfolds into the numberless flowers of spring. It waves in the branches of trees and the green blades of grass. It haunts the depths of the earth and the sea. It gleams from the hues of the shell and the precious stone. And not only these minute objects but the oceans, the mountains, the clouds, the stars, the rising and the setting sun — all overflow with beauty. This beauty is so precious, and so congenial to our tenderest and noblest feelings, that it is painful to think of the multitude of people living in the midst of it and yet remaining almost blind to it.

All persons should seek to become acquainted with the beauty in nature. There is not a worm we tread upon, nor a leaf that dances merrily as it falls before the autumn winds, but calls for our study and admiration. The power to appreciated beauty not merely increases our sources of happiness—it enlarges our moral nature, too. Beauty calms our restlessness and dispels our cares. Go into the fields or the woods, spend a summer day by the sea or the mountains, and all your little perplexities and anxieties will vanish. Listen to sweet music, and your foolish fears and petty jealousies will pass away. The beauty of the world helps us to seek and find the beauty of goodness.

Saving David

Years ago, when I was working as a psychologist at a children’s institution in England, an adolescent boy showed up in the waiting room, it was David.

David wore a black raincoat that was buttoned all the way up to his neck. His face was pale, and he stared at his feet while wringing his hands nervously. He had lost his father as an infant, and had lived together with his mother and grandfather ever since. But when David turned 13, his grandfather died and his mother was killed in a car accident. He was very depressed, refusing to talk to others.

The first two times we met, David didn’t say a word. He sat in the chair and only looked up at the children’s drawings on the wall. As he was about to leave after the second visit, I put my hand on his shoulder. He didn’t shrink back, but he didn’t look at me either.

“Come back next week,” I hesitated a bit. Then I said, “I know it hurts.”

He came, and I suggested we play a game of chess. He nodded. After that we played chess every Wednesday afternoon-in complete silence and without making any eye contact. It's not easy to cheat in chess, but I admit lhat I made sure David won once or twice.

It seemed as if he enjoyed my company. But why did he never look at me? “Perhaps he senses that I respect his suffering.” I kept wondering and playing with him, until some months later, suddenly, he looked up at me, “It’s your turn,” he said.

After that day, David started talking. He got friends in school and joined a bicycle club. He wrote to me a few times, after that the letters stopped. Now he had really started to live his own life.

Maybe I gave David something. At least I learned a lot from him. I learned how time makes it possible to overcome what seems to be an insuperable pain. I learned to be there for people who need me. And David showed me how one — without any words — can reach out to another person. All it takes is a hug, a shoulder to cry on, a friendly touch, a synipathetic- nature — and an ear that listens.

To Rome by Pisa and Siena

Charles Dickens

    There is nothing in Italy，more beautiful to me，than the coast-road between Genoa and Spezzia. On one side:sometimes far below, sometimes nearly on a level with the road，and often skirted by broken rocks of many shapes:there is the free blue sea，with here and there a picturesque felucca gliding slowly on;on the other side are lofty hills,  ravines besprinkled with white cottages，patches of dark olive woods，country churches with their light open towers, and country houses gaily painted. On every bank and knoll by the wayside, the wild cactus and aloe flourish in exuberant profusion;and the gardens of the bright villages along the road，are seen，all blushing in the summer-time with clusters of the Belladonna, and are fragrant in the autumn and winter with golden oranges and lemons.

    Some of the villages are inhabited, almost exclusively, by fishermen;and it is pleasant to see their great boats hauled up on the beach，making little patches of shade，where they lie asleep, or where the women and children sit romping and looking out to sea，while they mend their nets upon the shore.There is one town，Camoglia, with its little harbour on the sea，hundreds of feet below the road; where families of mariners live, who, time out of mind，have owned coasting-vessels in that place, and have traded to Spain and elsewhere. Seen from the road above, ii is like a tiny model on the margin of the dimpled water, shining in the sun. Descended into，by the winding mule-tracks it is a perfect miniature of a primitive seafaring town; the saltest, roughest, most piratical little place that ever was seen. Great rusty iron rings and mooring-chains, capstans, and fragments of old masts and spars，choke up the way;hardy rough-weather boats，and seamen's clothing，flutter in the little harbour or are drawn out on the sunny stones to dry;on the parapet of the rude pier, a few amphibious-looking fellows lie asleep，with their legs dangling over the wall，as though earth or water were all one to them, and if they slipped in, they would float away, dozing comfortably among the fishes;the church is bright with trophies of the sea，and votive offerings,in commemoration of escape from storm and shipwreck. The dwellings not immediately abutting on the harbour are approached by blind low archways，and by crooked steps, as if in darkness and in difficulty of access they should be like holds of ships, or   inconvenient cabins under water; and everywhere，there is a   smell of fish, and sea-weed, and old rope.

      The coast-road whence Camoglia is described so far below,is famous, in the warm season，especially in some parts near Genoa, for fire-flies. Walking there on a dark night,[have seen it made one sparkling firmament by these beautiful insects:so   that the distant stars were pale against the flash and glitter that   spangled every olive wood and hillside, and pervaded the whole   air.

    It was not in such a season, however,  that we traversed this road on our way to Rome. The middle of January was only just past, and it was very gloomy and dark weather; very wet besides. In crossing the fine pass of Bracco, we encountered such a storm of mist and rain，that we travelled in a cloud the whole way. There might have been no Mediterranean in the world，for anything that we saw of it there，except when a sudden gust of wind，clearing the mist before it, for a moment,showed the agitated sea at a great depth below, lashing the distant rocks and spouting up its foam furiously. The rain was incessant; every brook and torrent was greatly swollen;and such deafening leaping, and roaring, and thundering of water, I never heard the like of in my life.

    Hence，when we came to Spezzia，we found that the Magra，an unbridged river on the high-road to Pisa, was too high to be safely crossed in the Ferry Boat, and were fain to wait until the afternoon of next day, when it had, in some degree, subsided. Spezzia，however, is a good place to tarry at; by reason，firstly, of its beautiful bay;secondly, of its ghostly Inn;thirdly, of the head-dress of the women, who wear, on one side of their head, a small doll's straw hat, stuck on to the hair; which is certainly the oddest and most roguish head-gear that ever was invested.

    The Magra safely crossed in the Ferry Boat-the passage is not by any means agreeable, when the current is swollen and strong-we arrived at Carrara, within a few hours. In good time next morning, we got some ponies, and went out to see the marble quarries.

    They are four or five great glens, running up into a range of lofty hills, until they can run no longer, and are stopped by being abruptly strangled by Nature. The quarries, or "caves,”as they call them there, are so many openings, high up in the hills, on either side of these passes，where they blast and excavate for marble: which may turn out good or bad:may make a man's fortune very quickly, or ruin him by the great expens of working what is worth nothing. Some of these caves were opened by the ancient Romans, and remain as they left them to this hour. Many others are being worked at this moment; others are to be begun tomorrow,  next week，next month;others are unbought，unthought of and marble enough for more ages man has passed since the place was restored to，lies hidden everywhere:patiently awaiting its time of discovery.

    Carrara, shut in by great hills, is very picturesque and bold Few tourists stay there;and the people are nearly all connected,in one way or another, with the working of marble. There are also villages among the caves, where the workmen live. It contains a beautiful little Theatre，newly built; and it is an interesting custom there，to form the chorus of labourers in the marble quarries, who are self-taught and sing by ear. I heard them in a comic opera，and in an act of "Norms";and they acquitted themselves very well;unlike the common people of ltaly generally, who (with some exceptions among the Neapolitans) sing vilely out of tune, and have very disagreeable singing writes.

    From the summit of a lofty hill beyond Carrara, the first view of the fertile plain in which the town of Pisa lies-with Leghorn,a purple spot in the flat distance-is enchanting. Nor is it only distance that lends enchantment to the view; for the fruitful country, and rich woods of olivetrees through which the road subsequently passes, render it delightful.

    The moon was shining when we approached Pisa，and for a long time we could see, behind the wall, the leaning Tower,all awry in the uncertain light;the shadowy original of the old pictures in school-books, setting forth“The Wonders of the World".Like most things connected in their first associations with school-books and school-times, it was too small. I felt it keenly. It was nothing like so high above the wall as I had hoped. It was another of the many deceptions practiced by Mr.Harris，Bookseller, at the corner of St. Paul's Churchyard，London. His Tower was a fiction，but this was a reality-and,by comparison，a short reality. Still，it looked very well，and very strange, and was quite as much out of the perpendicular as Harris had represented it to be. The quiet air of Pisa too;the big guard-house at the gate, with only two little soldiers in it; the streets with scarcely any show of people in them;and the Arno, flowing quaintly through the center of the town;were excellent.So, I bore no malice in my heart against Mr. Harris (remembering his good intentions)，but forgave him before dinner, and went out, full of confidence, to see the Tower next morning.

    I might have known better;  but, somehow,  I had expected to see it, casting its long shadow on a public street where people came and went all day. It was a surprise to me to find it in a grave retired place，apart from the general resort, and carpeted with smooth green turf. But, the group of buildings, clustered on and about this verdant carpet: comprising the Tower, the Baptistery,the Cathedral, and the Church of the Campo Santo:is perhaps the most remarkable and beautiful in the whole world;and from being clustered there, together, away from the ordinary transactions and details of the town，they have a singularly venerable and impressive character. It is the architectural essence of a rich old city, with alt its common life and common habitations pressed out, and filtered away.

    If Pisa be the seventh wonder of the world in right of its Tower, it may claim to be, at least, the second or third in right of its beggars. They waylay the unhappy visitor at every turn，escort him to every door he enters at, and lie in wait for him,with strong reinforcements, at every door by which they know he must come out. The grating of the portal on its hinges is the signal for a general shout, and the moment he appears, he is hemmed in，and fallen on，by heaps of rags and personal distortions. The beggars seem to embody all the trade and enterprise of Pisa. Nothing else is stirring, but warm air. Going through the streets，the fronts of the sleepy houses look like backs. They are all so still and quiet, and unlike houses with people in them, that the greater part of the city has the appearance of a city at daybreak, or during a general siesta of the population. Or it is yet more like those backgrounds of houses in common prints, or old engravings, where windows and doors are squarely indicated，and one figure (a beggar of course)is seen walking off by itself into illimitable perspective.

Companionship of Books (Excerpts)

A man may usually be known by the books he reads as well as by the company he keeps; for there is a companionship of books as well as men; and one should always live in the best company，whether it be of books or of men.

A good book may be among the best friends. It is the same today that it always was, and it will never change. It is the most patient and cheerful of companions. It does not turn its back upon us in times of adversity or distress. It always receives us with the same kindness; amusing and instructing us in youth, and comforting and consoling us in age.

Men often discover their affinity to each other by the mutual love they have for a book just as two persons sometimes discover a friend by the admiration which both entertain for a third. There is an old proverb, “Love me, love my dog.” But there is more wisdom in this:“Love me,love my book.” The book is truer and higher bond of union. Men can think, feel and sympathize with each other through their favorite author. They live in him together, and he in them.

A good book is often the best urn of a life enshrining the best that life could think out; for the world of a man’s life is, for the most part, but the world of his thoughts. Thus the best books are treasuries of good words, the golden thoughts, which, remembered and cherished, become our constant companions and comforts.

Books possess the essence of immortality. They are by far the most lasting products of human effort. Temples and statues decay, but books survive. Time is of no account with great thoughts, which are as fresh today as when they first passed through the author’s minds ages ago. The only effect of time has been to sift out the bad products; for nothing in literature can long survive but what is really good.

Books introduce us into the best society; they bring us into the presence of the greatest minds that have ever lived. We hear what they said and did; we see them as if they were really alive; we sympathize with them, enjoy with them,grieve with them;their experience becomes ours, and we feel as if we were in a measure actors with them in the scenes which they describe.

The great and good do not die, even in this world. Embalmed in books,their spirits walk abroad. The book is a living voice. It is an intellect to which one still listens.

Feel the Meaning of Life

Imagine life as a game in which you are juggling some five balls in the air. You name them: Work, Family, Health, Friends, Spirit. And you’re keeping all of these in the air. You will soon understand that work is a rubber ball. If you drop it, it will bounce back. But the other four balls — family, health, friends and spirit are made of glass. If you drop one of these, they will be irrevocably marked, nicked, damaged or even shattered. They will never be the same. You must understand that and strive for balance in your life.

How?

Don’t undermine your worth by comparing yourself with others. It is because we are different that each of us is special. Don't set your goals by what other people deem important. Only you know what is best for you. Don’t take for granted the things closest to your heart. Cling to them as you would cling to your life, for without them, life is meaningless.

Don’t let your life slip through your fingers by living in the past or for the future. By living your life one day at a time, you live all the days of your life. Don’t give up when you still have something to give. Nothing is really over until the moment you stop trying.

Don’t be afraid to admit that you are less than perfect. It is this fragile thread that binds us each together. Don’t be afraid to encounter risks. It is by taking chances that we learn how to be brave. Don't shut love out of your life by saying it’s impossible to find. The quickest way to receive love is to give; the fastest way to lose love is to hold it too tightly; and the best way to keep love is to give it wings. Don’t run through life so fast that you forget not only where you’ve been, but also where you are going.

Your Inner Passion in Your Heart

Everyone — every person in this world has a Dream: a passion, a vision in their life that pulls them and urges them to move forward in life. You, my friend have this vision within you, it “whispers” to you occasionally, but in some cases it cries out. It cries out to be listened to and acted upon because this vision comes from your soul.

Within this “Inner Vision” there lies the magic of living your life with passion, fulfillment and purpose. This means being true to who you really are — and living your life on purpose with all the passion and energy you are capable of living.

When you live within your inner passions-you'11 never have to seek approval from others — you'll “chart your own course” and be the master of your own destiny. More importantly, you’ll feel whole, connected and inspired.

Find your inner fire，your sense of purpose; this fire will help you harness strengths you’re not even aware you have. Be connected with your inner passions — your Life’s Dreams, and live that passion every day.

Learn to Live in the Present Moment

To a large degree, the measure of our peace of mind is determined by how much we are able to live in the present moment. Irrespective of what happened yesterday or last year, and what may or may not happen tomorrow, the present moment is where you are - always!

Without question, many of us have mastered the neurotic art of spending much of our lives worrying about a variety of things - all at once. We allow past problems and future concerns to dominate our present moments, so much so that we end up anxious, frustrated, depressed, and hopeless. On the flip side, we also postpone our gratification, our stated priorities, and our happiness, often convincing ourselves that "someday" will be better than today. Unfortunately, the same mental dynamics that tell us to look toward the future will only repeat themselves so that "someday" never actually arrives. John Lennon once said, "Life is what's happening while we're busy making other plans." When we're busy making "other plans", our children are busy growing up, and people we love are moving away and dying, our bodies are getting out of shape, and our dreams are slipping away. In short, we miss out on life.

Many people live as if life were a dress rehearsal for some later date. It isn't. In fact, no one has a guarantee that he or she will be here tomorrow. Now is the only time we have, and the only time that we have any control over. When our attention is in the present moment, we push fear from our minds. Fear is the concern over events that might happen in the future - we won't have enough money, our children will get into trouble, we will get old and die, whatever.

To combat fear, the best strategy is to learn to bring your attention back to the present. Mark Twain said, "I have been through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened." I don't think I can say it any better. Practice keeping your attention on the here and now. Your efforts will pay great dividends.

Living in Big Cities

Why are so many people so anxious to get away from the small town or village where they were brought up, and to make for the big cities? They usually describe their hometown as "boring" or "dead," or - the harshest criticism of all - as "provincial."

If we examine the question from a distance, as if we were viewing the whole country from a long way off, we start to get a clue about what it is that lures us into the big cities. The main point to notice about big cities is that they are big: there are a lot of people, and there are a lot of things going on. If you look down on a city, literally from a great distance, from an airplane at night, you will be struck by the incredible brightness of a city: there are so many lights that you cannot help feeling that all the bright things of life are down there waiting for you. But a feeling of disappointment will set in shortly after you land, because you will discover as you drive into the city center from the airport that the lights are just that: lights, miles and miles of street lights and neon signs. They are not in themselves sources of joy and happiness: city lights are not friendly, they are merely lights. In fact, the effect will probably be to make you feel lonely and isolated.

And yet the city lures us, because it is not provincial like the dead little town we have left behind us. "Provincial" is in fact our way of describing not the town but the attitude of the people. In our little town, we know (or think we know) everybody. And what we know about them is that they do not want to go anywhere, or to do anything outside to normal routine of their everyday lives. Unlike us, they have no sense of adventure, no longing for new experiences or new horizons.

So we look down on them, pity or despise them, pack our bags, and make for the big world which we know is out there, where the bright lights are. Then a curious thing happens. We find a job, make a small circle of friends and acquaintances, and move into some cramped accommodation. Gradually we get to know our section of the city, its shops and its people, and for a while, we begin to feel at home. It is small enough, our part of the city, for us not to feel lost or anonymous. We, in effect, create another little village for ourselves within the big city. The ultimate irony comes when we rent a television set so that we can stay in at night and watch exactly the same programs that our despised country cousins watch. Soon we too become "provincial", and others who live round us will be glad to get up and leave us behind.

The happy door

Happiness is like a pebble dropped into a pool to set in motion an ever-widening circle of ripples. As Stevenson has said, being happy is a duty.

There is no exact definition of the word happiness. Happy people are happy for all sorts of reasons. The key is not wealth or physical well-being since we find beggars, invalids and so-called failures, who are extremely happy.

Being happy is a sort of unexpected dividend. But staying happy is an accomplishment, a triumph of soul and character. It is not selfish to strive for it. It is, indeed, a duty to ourselves and others.

Being unhappy is like an infectious disease. It causes people to shrink away from the sufferer. He soon finds himself alone, miserable and embittered. There is, however, a cure so simple as to seem, at first glance, ridiculous; if you don’t feel happy, pretend to be!

It works. Before long you will find that instead of repelling people, you attract them. You discover how deeply rewarding it is to be the center of wider and wider circles of good will.

Then the make-believe becomes a reality. You possess the secret of peace of mind, and can forget yourself in being of service to others.

Being happy, once it is realized as a duty and established as a habit, opens doors into unimaginable gardens thronged with grateful friends.

The Crystal Shoes

"Hi! John." Mary ran towards me with a rare bright smile on her face,saying, "I'm gonna have a dance performance tonight I hope you'll come. Here is the ticket. Don't forget!" She left in a hurry, disappearing in the throngs of people quickly.

"What?" I just came to my mind, "What performance? Dance? Is that credible?" I asked myself. Mary was not such kind of girl. She was a quite ordinary one. I had never seen her making up or wearing attractive clothes, moreover, she always wore her big black-frame glasses, for she did not know how to dress up indeed. What a terrible thing, especially for a plain girl!

"I should go to. I must go to. That's a miracle!" I thought.

I arrived at the hall with the ticket, and found my seat. Her performance was the seventh one. I knew I would suffer from a hard time before her turn, for I had no sense of art, but her performance was worth watching, no matter how long I would wait for.

Time went slowly. I struggled with myself not to fall asleep.

"Let's welcome the next exciting dance--Latin!" Applause fulfilled the hall at once.

I opened my eyes as large as possible, fearing to lose anything. Wearing a golden and shining skirt, Mary appeared on the glorious stage. Her dress went well with the brilliant lights. Such scene seemed to be a mermaiden showing up under the glittering sunshine. Meanwhile, I could feel all the audience in the hall focused their eyes on her and it was also hard for me to remove my sights from her. She was so beautiful: her stature was slim; her long golden hair lay back in curls over her delicate ears. Dancing with a charming smile, she was fully absorbed in the Latin music. At this moment, she looked like a pretty butterfly flying on the splendid stage... I could hardly believe my eyes.

After all the performance ended, I waited for her at the gate.

"Hi!" She stood in front of me with a bag and her crystal high-heeled shoes in her hands, and dressed as she used to be, but the making-up still could be seen.

"How do you feel?" There was not a little bit tired expression on her face.

"Fantastic!" I answered.

"Haha. I knew it would be." She could not conceal her excitement, laughing like a child.

"May I lend a hand?"

"Thank you!" She handed her crystal shoes to me which were shining in the wonderful starry night; at the mean time, I realized that every girl has a pair of special shoes which are like the crystal shoes of Cinderella.

One day a wealthy family man

One day a wealthy family man took his son on a trip to the country so he could have his son see how poor country people were.

They stayed one day and one night in the farmhouse of a very humble farm. On the way back home at the end of the trip the father asked the son,"What did you think of the trip?"

The son replied,"Very nice, Dad."

The father then asked, "Did you notice how poor they were?"

The son replied,"Yes, I guess so."

The father then added, "And what did you learn?"

To this question, the son thought for a moment and answered slowly, " I learned that we have one dog in the house and they have four. We have a fountain in the garden and they have a stream that has no end."

We have fancy lanterns in our garden, while they have the stars. Our garden goes to the edge of our yard, but for their back yard they have the entire horizon!

At the end of the son's reply, the rich father was speechless. His son then added: "Thanks, Dad, for showing me how poor we really are."

Isn't it true that all depends on the lens you use to see life?


If you have love, friends, family, health, good humor and a positive attitude toward life, you've got everything! You can't buy any of these things. You can have all the material possessions you can imagine, provisions for the future, etc., but if you are poor of spirit, you have nothing!

Add luster to your personality

In the eternal universe, every human being has a one-off chance to live --his existence is unique and irretrievable, for the mold with which he was made, as Rousseau said, was broken by God immediately afterwards.

Fame, wealth and knowledge are merely worldly possessions that are within the reach of anybody striving for them. But your experience of and feelings about life are your own and not to be shared. No one can live your life over again after your death. A full awareness of this will point out to you that the most important thing in your existence is your distinctive individuality or something special of yours. What really counts is not your worldly success but your peculiar insight into the meaning of life and your commitment to it, which add luster to your personality.

It is not easy to be what one really is. There is many a person in the world who can be identified as anything either his job, his status or his social role that shows no trace about his individuality. It does do him justice to say that he has no identity of his own, if he doesn't know his own mind and all his things are either arranged by others or done on others' sugg estions; if his life, always occupied by external things, is completely void of an inner world. You won't be able to find anything whatever, from head to heart, that truly belongs to him. He is, indeed, no more than a shadow cast by somebody else or a machine capable of doing business.