The other day an interviewer asked me, as many do, which book has had the greatest influence on my life. If, over the course of my entire life, just one book had influenced me more than any other, I’d be an idiot. There are books that were crucial in my twenties and others that defined my thirties, and I impatiently await the book that will sweep me away when I reach a hundred. Another impossible question is, Who has really taught you something in your life? I never know how to answer, unless I were to say my mother and father, since at every juncture of my life someone has taught me something. They might have been those close to me or some dear departed friend, like Aristotle, Saint Thomas Aquinas, John Locke, or Charles Sanders Peirce.
In any event, I can say that, apart from books, there have been lessons that have certainly changed my life. The first came from Signorina Bellini, my wonderful junior high school teacher who, as homework for the following day, used to give us a word, such as “hen” or “steamship,” that we had to use as the starting point for a thought or a story. One day, in the enthusiasm of the moment, I said I would talk there and then on any subject she chose. She looked at her desk and said “notebook.” In retrospect, I could have spoken about a journalist’s notebook or an explorer’s travel diary, but instead I leapt boldly onto the teacher’s platform and froze. Signorina Bellini taught me on that occasion never to be too sure of my own strengths.
The second lesson was that of Father Giuseppe Celi, the Salesian priest who had taught me to play a musical instrument. It is rumored he is being considered for sainthood, but not for the reason given here, which, on the contrary, could be used against him. On January 5, 1945, I bounded up to him and said, “Father Celi, I’m thirteen today.” “Very misspent,” he replied rather gruffly. What did he mean? That having reached such a venerable age I had to begin a serious examination of conscience? That I shouldn’t expect to receive praise simply for having performed my biological duty? Perhaps it was just a normal Piedmontese manifestation of reserve, a refusal to embark on rhetoric, or perhaps these words were a fond expression of congratulations. But I think Father Celi was well aware, and was teaching me, that a master must always challenge his pupils, and not overly excite them.
After that lesson I have always been parsimonious in my praise of those who were expecting it, except in cases of superior performance. Perhaps this reluctance of mine has upset some, and if that is so, then in addition to misspending my first thirteen years, I have also misspent my first sixty-six years. But I resolved that the best way of expressing my approval was by making no criticism. No criticism means someone has done well. I have always been irritated by expressions such as “good pope” or “honest politician,” which left room only for the thought that other popes were bad and other politicians dishonest. They are all simply doing what is expected of them, and it’s hard to see why they should receive congratulations.
But Father Celi’s reply taught me not to feel too proud of what I had done, even if I thought I’d done it well, and above all not to go around being smug. Does this mean we shouldn’t aim to do better? Certainly not. But in a rather odd way Father Celi’s answer reminds me of a quote I came across from Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.: “The secret of my success is that at an early age I discovered that I was not God.” It’s very important to realize you’re not God, always to be doubtful about what you do, and to feel you haven’t spent the years of your life well enough. It’s the only way of spending the remaining years better.
You might wonder why these thoughts come to mind now, at the start of an electoral campaign when candidates have to behave in a godlike fashion to win—in other words, to say of all they have done, like the Creator after the creation, that it was good, and to display a certain delusion of omnipotence in proclaiming themselves capable of doing better things, whereas God was satisfied at having created the best of all possible worlds. I don’t wish to moralize: an electoral campaign demands such behavior. Can you imagine a candidate telling future voters that “up to now I’ve made a lot of big mistakes, I can’t be sure I’ll do any better in the future, and all I can promise is to have a go”? He wouldn’t get elected. Therefore, I repeat, no false moralism. It’s just that, listening to the televised debates, Father Celi returns to mind.
2007