The Art of Manliness - Manvotionals: Timeless Wisdom and Advice on Living the 7 Manly Virtues

by Brett McKay

  They used maggots on my legs to eat away the dead flesh. I guessed it worked, because I kept my legs. At one point they had talked about amputating them. Altogether, I was in the hospital for eighteen months—three months in traction, then another six months in bed, then months of rehabilitation after that. It took a long time before I could set a foot on the floor. The first day I did, I stood up. The next day after that I walked across the damn hospital floor on a pair of rolling parallel bars. Ten days later I was out on a weekend pass. They fitted me for a set of braces that I wore for about three months after that. I worked at rehab eight hours a day until I finally healed.

  BILL WINGETT

  Just back from the hospital in Brussels, I pulled into Mourmelon one-and-a-half days before we piled on trucks for Bastogne. We drove for quite a while, we only got off the truck for piss call—I think we only did that twice. I didn’t have hardly any of my equipment. When our guys were coming south when we were coming north, I never hesitated saying, “Hey, I need that.” So I got to Bastogne with a couple of good coats and a rifle, borrowed from the guys who were retreating.

  After some time I had to go to the infirmary for my feet because they were frozen. They were shelling the infirmary while I was there. But I was never shot. I was one of the few. Did I ever think I was going to die? I can only remember a couple of times thinking “this might be it.” But I do not remember any time that I felt like hunkering down in a foxhole and covering up my head in fear. Understand this: I’m not a religious person. I believe in God. I’ll say more than that—I know there’s a God. And I know that there’s got to be several occasions I displeased God, whatever form He’s in. But I never felt the need to get down on my knees and pray that I wouldn’t die. I don’t think it ever crossed my mind that I wasn’t going home—not while I was in a foxhole, not while sitting on the line somewhere. I always figured tomorrow was coming and I was going to be there. I never had a doubt that I wouldn’t go home.

  Early in our training, it could have been Sink, or Sobel, or Winters, somebody said, “Determination is the answer.” I took that to heart. At Bastogne we were cold. We were hungry. But we had to get the job done. A job ought to be done right if you’re going to do it at all.

  Ulysses

  FROM POEMS, 1842

  By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  The Odyssey, written by the Greek poet Homer, follows the hero Odysseus (Ulysses in Roman myths) as he journeys home after fighting in the Trojan War. After ten years of fighting, Odysseus was determined to return to his family as quickly as possible. But he is thwarted in his quest by obstacles and monsters, and it takes him another decade of traveling to make it back to Ithaca. During that time Odysseus never wavers in his resolve to embrace his family once more.

  In “Ulysses,” Tennyson imagines life for Odysseus after the euphoria of his homecoming has waned and life in Ithaca has returned to normal. Odysseus is advanced in years and free from his former hardships, and yet is restless for further challenge and travel on the open seas; he resolves to die living a life of adventure and prepares to set sail once again. Tennyson wrote this poem after learning of the death of his close friend and fellow poet, Arthur Henry Hallam. Devastated by the loss of this companion, Tennyson said the poem “gave my feeling about the need of going forward and braving the struggle of life,” that despite such loss, “still life must be fought out to the end.”

  It little profits that an idle king,

  By this still hearth, among these barren crags,

  Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole

  Unequal laws unto a savage race,

  That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

  I cannot rest from travel: I will drink

  Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy’d

  Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those

  That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when

  Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

  Vext the dim sea: I am become a name.

  For always roaming with a hungry heart

  Much have I seen and known: cities of men,

  And manners, climates, councils, governments,

  Myself not least, but honour’d of them all;

  And drunk delight of battle with my peers,

  Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

  I am part of all that I have met;

  Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’

  Gleams that untravell’d world, whose margin fades

  For ever and for ever when I move.

  How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

  To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!

  As tho’ to breathe were life. Life piled on life

  Where all too little, and of one to me

  Little remains: but every hour is saved

  From that eternal silence, something more,

  A bringer of new things; and vile it were

  For some three suns to store and hoard myself,

  And this gray spirit yearning in desire

  To follow knowledge like a sinking star,

  Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

  This is my son, my own Telemachus,

  To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle—

  Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil

  This labour, by slow prudence to make mild

  A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees

  Subdue them to the useful and the good.

  Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere

  Of common duties, decent not to fail

  In offices of tenderness, and pay

  Meet adoration to my household gods,

  When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

  There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:

  There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,

  Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me—

  That ever with a frolic welcome took

  The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed

  Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;

  Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;

  Death closes all: but something ere the end,

  Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

  Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.

  The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;

  The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep

  Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.

  ‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

  Push off, and sitting well in order smite

  The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

  To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

  Of all the western stars, until I die.

  It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;

  It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles,

  And see the great Achilles, whom we knew;

  Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’

  We are not now that strength which in old days

  Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;

  One equal temper of heroic hearts,

  Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

  To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

  “There is nothing more to be esteemed than a manly firmness and decision of character.” —William Hazlitt

  A Highly Developed Power of Choosing

  FROM THE BUSINESS PHILOSOPHER, 1909

  Of the two elements constituting Will—choice and that persistence of effort which brings about a realization of the choice—we need to note in reference to a highly developed power of choosing several important characteristics. First, the capability to actually make a choice—a decisive, fixed, definite choice. So far as possible, the choice should be consciously made. We should realize that we are rendering a decision—consciously linking our lives in the chain of destiny.

  Second, the choice, when made, should represent our actual feelings. I
t should be the expression of our predominant desires. I hold that the Will, in choosing, should be a servant and not a dictator, a slave and not a master.

  Third, having chosen one of several alternatives, all the rest should be banished from the mind. The man of developed power of choice may hesitate long; yet having picked one plan from the many, the many will be forgotten. His mind is now as free from their influence as if they never had been. Doubt is over. Hesitancy is over. “The die is cast.”

  And here we have one of the great psychic elements which distinguishes the man of executive ability from the common man. That foe to all action—regret—does not reach him. He will hesitate, doubt, compare, discriminate, speculate, and reconsider before a choice is made—but not afterwards. But the man of inferior executive ability—though having made a decision, though having picked his course—keeps on comparing, deciding, doubting, and picking. And though having decided over and over many times, he still hesitates in the execution for fear of a mistake in the planning, for fear that he has blundered in the choice.

  THE EXECUTIVE QUALITY

  But the man with a trained will, having decided once, never turns back—never reconsiders. He says to his memory in reference to any other choice he might have made “forget it.” Before making the choice he saw many roads that he might take. But after making it he sees but one.

  Fourth, having made a choice, having decided upon a plan, we must have the courage to stand by it. The man of high executive ability is not terrified, as is the average man, by the fact of a mistake—and the probability of more to follow. He is not frightened to death because of a failure. Defeat to him is nothing more than delay.

  Does the successful man never make mistakes? He does. Does he never choose the wrong course? Sometimes. Does he never blunder in his decisions? Often. How, then, does he succeed? First, by having a predominance of correct decisions. Second, by enforcing these with unerring precision and celerity of movement.

  SUPPOSE YOU BLUNDER?

  Your man of high executive ability, of developed power of choice, of keen capacity in the forming of a plan, knows that he will make many mistakes, many blunders, many errors, many bad decisions. He knows that after the work is all done he will see numerous places where it could have been better. But what of it? Life is as much in the striving as in the gaining, in the effort as in the reward, in the sowing as in the reaping.

  NO REGRETS

  The successful man knows but little of regrets, cares but little for past failures, and broods but little over the blunders he has made. And he could not be successful if he did.

  And yet it is not because he never fell down that he is now up, but simply because he would not stay down. It may have been another’s fault that he fell. It would have been his own had he lain there. His final success came not because he did not blunder, but because he did not keep his attention constantly on his blunders. He dwelt upon these simply long enough to find the cause, so as not to make the same mistake twice. Once is enough. One should have variety even in his blunders.

  A fifth characteristic of the power of a developed choice is definiteness. A plan clearly, vividly, and intensely conceived is already half executed. The choice must not only be decisive but incisive. When the plan lacks the quality of definiteness, when it is uncertain, vague and foggy—indistinct in outline and uncertain as to detail—a swift and vigorous execution is impossible. And so before there can be speed and accuracy of execution, there must be definiteness of planning. And the more definite, distinct, exact, and clear-cut the choice or decision, the easier its execution. A plan of action possessing such qualities will almost execute itself.

  THE VALUE OF PROMPTNESS

  A sixth characteristic of a developed power to choose is promptness of decision. While the whole field should be carefully surveyed before the choice is made, while every alternative should be examined and the possibilities of each considered; yet it must be recognized that time is an element in the making of a choice. All things are in motion. Even the planet on which we live, and the sun around which it revolves, is moving. Our time is always limited. Even life is limited. And on many a hard-fought field promptness of decision turned defeat into victory.

  I think it holds true that men possessing great promptness and decisiveness of decision were men strongly given to meditation. They had the imaginative power to picture nearly all possible contingencies, and thus to decide beforehand what they would do under each one. Their prompt decisions were the product of premeditation. In their solitary wanderings and musings they were picturing, dreaming, speculating, conjecturing as to the possibilities which might arise. And so to have promptness of decision accompanied by accuracy, there must be forethought and premeditation.

  And yet I must recognize the fact that we always have the extremes. Every important law of life is a contradiction—a paradox. It always requires the possession of two conflicting processes. And so it is here. At the one extreme is the man who does not reflect in advance. He seizes upon the first plan which comes into his mind, forms a definite, fixed, unchangeable resolution, and proceeds immediately to action—and to vigorous action at that. His decisions are made quickly, and his action follows instantly. If the choice happens to be right, he “wins big.” If it happens to be wrong, he is “down and out.” Here we have promptness of decision. But it lacks in accuracy and reliability.

  REFLECT NOT TOO MUCH

  At the other extreme is the man who reflects long and often, who takes everything into consideration, who goes over the whole field—not once but many times; who pictures every possibility, every contingency, and every danger arising from each course. He considers not simply one plan but many plans. But the trouble is that he has taken so many things into consideration, has pictured so many different plans, and sees so many different ways by which it could be done, that he cannot decide upon any. The difference between them is so slight that he has no preference. And without a preference there cannot be a choice. But the great executive character has the will to make a choice when no preference exists. And so he is a combination of the powers and capacities of both—with the defects of neither.

  The seventh, and last, trait of a developed power of choosing to be here mentioned, is that the choice, or plan, when made, must be immovable. The choice must become a permanent part of the nervous system, a fixed structure of the brain. The choice, the plan, the resolution, must be fixed, firm, substantial—immovable.

  The decision, when made, must be formed of such firmness of mental fiber that it will not dissolve into fragments and shreds when nervous energy is poured into it. It must be able to withstand the conflicts of contending emotions and weather the storms of passion intact.

  Some people’s plans, decisions, and resolutions are but little more than “dissolving views.” And yet it is only when a determination has solidified and crystallized into a conviction that it can be made the foundation for great achievements.

  “People do not lack strength; they lack will.” —Victor Hugo

  The Quitter

  FROM RHYMES OF A ROLLING STONE, 1912

  By Robert Service

  When you’re lost in the Wild, and you’re scared as a child,

  And Death looks you bang in the eye,

  And you’re sore as a boil, it’s according to Hoyle

  To cock your revolver and … die.

  But the Code of a Man says: “Fight all you can,”

  And self-dissolution is barred.

  In hunger and woe, oh, it’s easy to blow …

  It’s the hell-served-for-breakfast that’s hard.

  “You’re sick of the game!” Well, now, that’s a shame.

  You’re young and you’re brave and you’re bright.

  “You’ve had a raw deal!” I know—but don’t squeal,

  Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.

  It’s the plugging away that will win you the day,

  So don’t be a piker, old pard!

  Just draw on you
r grit; it’s so easy to quit:

  It’s the keeping-your-chin-up that’s hard.

  It’s easy to cry that you’re beaten—and die;

  It’s easy to crawfish and crawl;

  But to fight and to fight when hope’s out of sight—

  Why, that’s the best game of them all!

  And though you come out of each grueling bout,

  All broken and beaten and scarred,

  Just have one more try—it’s dead easy to die,

  It’s the keeping-on-living that’s hard.

  “And having thus chosen our course, without guile and with pure purpose, let us renew our trust in God and go forward without fear and with manly hearts.” —Abraham Lincoln

  To Fight It to the Last

  THE FINAL LETTER OF ROBERT FALCON SCOTT TO HIS WIFE

  FROM THE SOUTH POLE, 1912

  In January of 1912, Englishman Robert Falcon Scott, along with a team of four others, began the last leg of their quest to become the first men to reach the South Pole. The hopes of these intrepid explorers were dashed when they neared their destination only to find that Roald Amundsen had gotten there before them. Incredibly dejected, the men now faced a wearisome eight-hundred-mile return journey.

  The men trudged forward day after day, through the snow and ice, battling 70-degrees-below-zero temperatures and blinding blizzards. Dwindling rations and frostbite sapped the men’s strength and spirit. One of the five men, Edgar Evans, collapsed and died. Another, Lawrence “Titus” Oates, could no longer go on, but the team refused to leave him behind. Choosing to sacrifice himself to improve the other men’s chances of survival, he simply left his tent and walked away, telling the others, “I am just going outside and may be some time.” He was never seen again. Scott wrote, “We knew that poor Oates was walking to his death, but though we tried to dissuade him, we knew it was the act of a brave man and an English gentleman.”