If

There are a lot of motivational crap online these days. Offline too - and those are entitled self-help books. But there is a particular poem that I thought I should share with you today. It is not a motivational poem. And it is most certainly not a crappy poem. It might be one of my favorite piece of poetry ever written. Every time I read these verses I realize what low and terrible excuse of a human begin I actually am. I think the world would be a better place if we all could thrive to be a little more like Kippling thought we could. If only we tried. If.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master,
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

You may wonder, why am I sharing this fantastic albeit completely out of context (is there a context to this blog?) piece of literature with you? I just watched a very good movie today - Gosford Park - not for the first time, mind you. But today I was very interested in the servants (usually I'm just interested in Maggie Smith). In particularly, in being really good in something. Excelling in something.

Ironically, the character I'm speaking of, Mrs Wilson, was a very, very, good servant. She said: "What gift do you think a good servant has that separates them from the others? It's the gift of anticipation. And I'm a good servant. I'm better than good. I'm the best. I'm the perfect servant. I know when they'll be hungry and the food is ready. I know when they'll be tired and the bed is turned down. I know it before they know it themselves."

Another guy I like said we could be so much better if we didn't want to be so great. What is to excel? Is thriving to excel making us so mediocre? Then how come some people overcome the mediocre barrier? How can some people reach greatness? How do they do that? What have they got? Is it inspiration or is it transpiration? How high should the standards be? Alas, too many uanswered questions for today. Maybe another day, maybe from another perspective.

Footnote: The movie is full of excellent actors. And then Helen Mirren is on. And my grandmother: "Helen Mirren!" Yes, folks, the bloody Hollywoodian machine in a half-Alzheimer's brain - it can only remember rather recent Oscars. Too acid?