Would you rather develop a new product or develop your soul? What matters more to you—being a successful CEO or being someone who always lends a helping hand? Having a pile of money in the bank or knowing that your retirement years will be shared with friends and family who adore you?
These are the kinds of questions that New York Times columnist David Brooks makes us consider in his 2015 book, The Road to Character. Brooks believes we live in a cultural framework that emphasizes exterior success—money, fame, status, work promotions, and other upwardly mobile achievements—at the expense of our virtue and inner character.
In order to succeed in that framework, we’ve become narcissists. Because we want to ascend the ladder of success, we put ourselves at the center of our own universe. Almost every minute of our days must be spent working toward some achievement. We inflate our resumés with accolades and promotions. We have lunch with the “right” people. We trade up to larger houses and fancier cars. We enroll our kids in the best schools. We spend our lives in pursuit of superficial, materialistic gains because we believe this will make us happy. The problem is that these accomplishments don’t give us deep satisfaction—eventually they leave us feeling hollow and empty, wondering what it was all for.
The Road to Character argues that in order to live more meaningful lives, we need to move toward a moral renewal. We need to ask ourselves how we can better serve the world instead of just serving ourselves. If we start paying more attention to living virtuously and strengthening our character rather than building our resumés and stock portfolios, we can enjoy a life filled with purpose instead of shallow victories. And ultimately, we’ll become happier people.
Our culture wasn’t always obsessed with personal achievement. Today’s “me-focused” worldview didn’t arise until the late 1940s. Prior to that time, most Americans accepted the notion of “original sin”—that we’re born deeply flawed, and it’s our task to battle our imperfections. Whether we win or lose that battle, the fight is always worthwhile because character is built through struggle.
Because we realized we were flawed, we believed there must be a greater good in the world, a purpose bigger than ourselves. That belief made us more community-minded. People thought it was honorable to be modest about individual successes and more deely invested in the wellbeing of our neighborhoods, communities, or country. Humility and self-restraint were highly respected traits.
Consider President George Bush Sr., who was born in 1924 and grew up during the Great Depression. After his speechwriters prepared his speeches, he would go through and cross out every instance of the word “I.” He believed that he needed to serve as the voice of the people, not of himself.
The “me-focused” zeitgeist, which took root in the late 1940s and early 1950s, came about after Americans’ long period of deprivation during World War II. It was psychologically liberating to shift from the hardships of war and poverty to the freedom of consumerism. Advertisements for new, exciting products started to frame a new way of living (and thinking). At the same time, popular books stressed a humanistic psychology that described a more uplifting version of what human life could be. (One of that era’s biggest bestsellers was the 1952 self-help book The Power of Positive Thinking.) The message switched from “you’re born as a flawed sinner” to “you’re great, so love yourself.” (Shortform note: To learn more about the ideas that caused this shift, read our summary of The Power of Positive Thinking.)
Over time, the pendulum swung so far in the direction of self-actualization that it has now reached the extreme of narcissism—we’re all about ourselves—the "Big Me." And we’re mostly blind to it. If asked, most of us would say we’re more virtuous than a lot of other people. But therein lies our problem. We have such an inflated view of ourselves that we don't see our own flaws. We have so much confidence in ourselves that we justify our life choices just because they "feel right." We’ve sipped from our own Kool-Aid. In short, we’ve become self-obsessed.
However, as we glibly travel along our “me-focused” roads, our lives have lost their sense of meaning. We’re so busy achieving worldly success, there’s no time for soul-searching, pondering our character, or questioning whether we’re behaving in a morally righteous manner. On top of that, we don’t remember what it feels like to devote ourselves to a cause larger than ourselves. We’ve lost the value—and the deep, abiding joy—of sublimating our individual desires for a greater good.
The good news is that the two schools of thought—living an achievement-based life versus living a virtuous life—are not mutually exclusive. We can be achievement-oriented without being egotistically “me-focused.” We are resourceful enough to be able to combine our ambition with moral and spiritual development. We don’t need to go off to a mountaintop and renounce all worldly pleasures in order to live a fulfilling life—in fact, our economy depends on us being high-achieving workers who earn and spend money.
The battle for stronger character and high morals is waged on the inside. What you do for your vocation can aid in this battle—working in public service is definitely good for the soul—but what matters most is looking inward, admitting to your imperfections, facing life with humility, and struggling to become a better human being. If you devote enough effort to examining your flaws and developing your inner character, you could manage a successful hedge fund while living a life of selfless virtue.
Perhaps the best part of leaving our selfish, self-aggrandizing ways behind is that it leads to a more fulfilling life. Instead of chasing whatever superficial goal appeals to us at the moment, we’ll be working toward a higher purpose. We’ll be less concerned about impressing everybody and more concerned with loving others and ourselves. We’ll find more joy in helping our communities than in buying a shiny new trinket. We’ll settle into a mature, relaxed state of self-acceptance, knowing that we’re living a life of profound meaning.
The bulk of The Road to Character presents a series of profiles, a hall of fame stocked with historical figures who rose above their imperfections and their lives’ challenges to build strength of character. They did it by employing self-restraint and embracing a vigorous moral code. The profiles include military and political leaders, crusaders for justice, advocates for the oppressed, and writers and thinkers spread across cultures and centuries. Each of these figures made their mark in history by humbling themselves, admitting to their shortcomings, and working tirelessly to become better human beings. The profiles include:
Founder of the newspaper The Catholic Worker and advocate for the downtrodden during the Depression era, Day became a better person by admitting her flaws. In her younger years, she suffered from depression and alcoholism, but she used the Christian concept of grace to turn her life of sadness into a life of service. Through deep devotion to her religion, she learned to embrace her own suffering and let it guide and strengthen her character. Her personal struggles became a force for good.
Takeaways: To find salvation, devote yourself to a cause that gives meaning and purpose to your life and learn to find the value in your own mistakes and flaws.
One of America’s most prominent civil rights organizers and activists, Randolph worked to end racial discrimination in employment and organized the first predominantly Black labor union in 1925. His dignified manner, impeccable manners, and quiet strength made him a role model for future civil rights activities. He emphasized civil disobedience and nonviolent protests like sit-ins and pray-ins over shouting or violence.
Takeaways: Achieve self-mastery and behave with dignity and decorum in all situations. Peaceful protest and nonviolence can be more powerful than violent revolt.
The Army general who helped to lead America through World War II and created the “Marshall Plan” that rebuilt Europe was repeatedly passed over for military positions he coveted. A deeply reserved and private person, he never “blew his own horn,” even though it might have helped his career. He learned to deny himself for the benefit of others and to not allow jealousy to derail him. As a wartime general, he was known for his great dedication to his troops and to the Army as an institution. His quiet, dignified leadership led to him winning the Nobel Peace Prize in 1953.
Takeaways: Sacrifice your individual desires for the betterment of a larger institution. Exhibit a reserved, humble demeanor.
The general who commanded the Allied invasion of France in World War II and later became an American President was brought up in a strictly disciplined household. His mother taught him self-restraint and self-discipline, which Eisenhower badly needed to reign in his fiery temper. Eisenhower used his childhood lessons to sustain him through many career disappointments. By exercising patience and managing his internal anger, he eventually achieved personal and political success.
Takeaways: Don’t act on every emotion that you feel. Self-restraint leads to a better, more successful life, especially for people with passionate dispositions. Great leaders lead with balance and moderation—they make big changes gradually and incrementally, rather than in one startling swoop.
The U.S. Secretary of Labor from 1933 to 1945 and the first woman to be appointed to a President’s cabinet, Perkins is known as “the woman behind the New Deal.” She was called into service through a life-changing event—at age 31, she walked out of a Manhattan tea party to witness the Triangle Shirtwaist fire, one of the most famous factory fires in American history, in which 146 garment workers perished. The experience led her on the path to become a crusader for workers’ rights. As she moved through her career in public service, she became even more deeply dedicated to her cause while simultaneously supporting her husband and daughter, who both suffered from bipolar disorder.
Takeaways: Seek your true calling and figure out how you can best serve your world. Sacrifice your individual desires for a greater purpose.
The 4th-century theologian learned to reject worldly pleasures and surrender himself to God and grace. Augustine was a classic overachiever who found his many successes unfulfilling, so he went on a search for meaning. Augustine’s “Confessions” are a long meditation on the perils of sin, pride, and selfishness, in which he finally determines that even by becoming a bishop, continually studying the Bible, and praying for divine wisdom, he cannot attain perfection. He finally chose to humble himself and admit to his innate flaws and was then able to revel in God’s grace.
Takeaways: Understand that we cannot trust our own desires because we are all born sinful, and our individual desires always lead us astray. Self-pride makes us think we control our own lives, but we don’t. Only God is in control, and by surrendering to His grace, our struggles will become easier.
Novelist George Eliot (pen name for Mary Anne Evans) learned to be a better person by opening herself up to selfless love. Her decades-long relationship with partner George Lewes changed her from someone who was childlike, self-indulgent, and needy to a mature adult who was able to do the difficult work of writing soul-searching fiction. She paid a huge price for her relationship—Lewes was technically still married to another woman, so the pair were ousted from polite society—but that sacrifice helped her define her sense of morality and take agency for her own life.
Takeaways: Love has a redemptive power, and loving fully and being fully loved increases your ability to be your best self. Also, it’s important to define your own moral code even if it defies society’s conventions.
A brilliant writer who made major contributions to English literature in the 18th century as a poet, playwright, essayist, moralist, literary critic, biographer, and editor, Johnson suffered from physical maladies and depression throughout his life. He rescued himself through deep self-exploration, moral inquiry, and feverishly hard work. To combat his insecurities and his fear of a demanding and punishing God, he filled his diaries with self-criticism and vows for self-improvement. Through his lifelong physical and emotional suffering, he learned to have great compassion for others.
Takeaways: Every human struggle is a moral struggle. We can never become perfect human beings, but we can build our character by constantly striving for self-improvement.
To help us recalibrate our moral compasses, Brooks outlines a 15-point Humility Code in the final chapter of the book. Following this code will help us circumvent our tendency for narcissism, help us live more virtuous lives, and ultimately make us happier, better people. These are his 15 guiding principles for building character, organized by theme:
15. If you’re a leader, make changes within your organization slowly and gradually. Don’t shoot for big, dramatic, headline-making changes; instead, make small shifts that people can adapt to and embrace. Understand that your job as a leader is not to be a ground-breaking pioneer or revolutionary change-maker. Your job is to find a balance between competing goals and interests.
New York Times columnist David Brooks believes that modern society has lost its moral compass, and our lives will feel empty until we find it again. In The Road to Character, he asserts that in the last 70 years—beginning soon after World War II’s end—our culture has undergone a huge moral shift toward narcissism.
Today we’re obsessed with personal success and individual achievements. We believe that the length of our resumés is the ultimate measure of our worth. We think that a successful career, fame, and a fat bank account equal a fulfilling life. We broadcast our tiniest personal victories on Facebook and Instagram while we cover up, ignore, or even lie about our character flaws. We’re so busy achieving—and telling our friends what we’ve achieved—that we don’t waste a single moment wondering if there’s any higher purpose for our lives.
Ironically, in our conquest for external success, we've made ourselves unhappy. As we center our lives around “living the good life”—striving for fabulous careers, sprawling mansions, and glamorous vacations—we've lost our connection to the moral values that bring deep, lasting joy. Happiness can’t be found in achievements; it lies in the battle for higher moral character. Our life’s most meaningful work is to become better human beings—individuals who are humble, virtuous, loving, and more interested in service to others than to the self.
There’s a big difference between "resumé virtues" (job-related skills and successes) and "eulogy virtues" (the personality traits that people talk about at your funeral). Most of us would say that eulogy virtues are more important than resumé virtues, but we give lip service to eulogy virtues while we spend the bulk of our time building resumé virtues.
Truthfully, what matters to you more—being famous or being a great friend? Would you rather be remembered as a top salesperson or a devoted parent? These are hard questions because our culture rewards us for external achievements, not for cultivating our virtue, building our character, and being the best human beings we can be. “Eulogy virtues” are only lauded after we’re dead.
Philosophers have long studied human nature, considering the ways in which we are governed by competing influences: good versus evil, generosity versus selfishness, and so on. For much of western civilization, the prevailing school of thought has been that humans have a natural tendency for selfishness and narcissistic self-love. But we also have free will, and we can choose not to be enslaved by our selfish desires.
Brooks references the writings of rabbi and scholar Joseph Soloveitchik, who believed that the Book of Genesis contains two accounts of creation that represent the opposing sides of human nature. "Adam 1" is our ambitious, career-oriented self and "Adam 2" is our moral, internal self who aims for greater good, regardless of personal ambitions.
Adam 1 is very busy. She’s buying a big suburban house and winning accolades at work. She is constantly proving to the world that she is at the top of her game. In doling out her time and energy, she always puts herself, her career, and her finances first. She prioritizes time over people—after all, it takes a lot of hours and energy to continually improve her skills, knowledge, and abilities, and she knows she’ll get rewarded. She manages her life like a well-thought-out business plan.
In order to develop our Adam 1 natures, we must spend time nurturing our strengths—our talents, intelligence, and professional skills. To do this, we have to develop an achievement-oriented mindset, and we have to put ourselves first. We study hard to get into the best colleges, we work long hours to win big promotions at work, we make friends with people who can help us get ahead, and we marry into the “right” families. We even make sure we have a big social media presence—tons of Facebook friends—so that everybody can keep track of our upwardly-mobile progress.
People with a well-developed Adam 1 side don’t spend time worrying about their inner lives or moral compass. Since they are rewarded by society for their many achievements, they never even consider the question of whether or not they are virtuous enough. They slip into "moral mediocrity," assuming that if they're popular and well-liked, they must be good enough.
Adam 2 may or may not have achieved worldly success, but she is deeply concerned about the health and welfare of her family, friends, co-workers, and neighbors. She works hard all day at her job, volunteers at the soup kitchen in the evenings, and helps out her elderly parents on the weekends. The neighborhood kids always seem to gather at her house, where she makes time to listen to their problems and cheer them on. Nonetheless, she is humble about her life. She doesn’t talk much about herself or her activities because in her mind, it’s not remarkable. She’s just doing what needs to be done.
In order to develop our Adam 2 natures—which is essentially our moral core or character—we must confront and analyze our weaknesses (which might be selfishness, egotism, alcoholism, sex or love addiction, laziness, lack of empathy, a need for attention, or any number of other vices). We need to face up to the fact that we are far from perfect. Once we identify our faults, we can work on self-improvement. We can make it our daily work to build stronger character and become better human beings.
People who have a well-developed Adam 2 side are reserved, self-effacing, humble, dignified, respectful, and restrained. They are well aware of their flaws, so they don’t go around telling or showing the world how great they are. Instead, they make everyone around them feel good because they are not focused on themselves. And they always look around to see where their service is needed. Like Adam 1s, Adam 2s are doers, but they’re not usually doing for themselves. They perform “other-oriented” acts of service without expecting praise or gratitude. They ask themselves, who needs assistance? What needs to be done? What gifts do I have to offer that will make this world a better place?
Football quarterbacks Joe Namath and John Unitas were both amazing sports heroes. Both were raised in Pennsylvania steel towns, but they were brought up differently (and a decade apart). As adults, they subscribed to vastly different moral codes. Namath was a flamboyant showman and a shameless self-promoter. He often talked about how handsome he was and how the ladies adored him. He was a superstar who defined himself by “personal branding” before that term even existed. Namath was a classic Adam 1.
John Unitas was an equally outstanding quarterback, but he was understated, self-effacing, almost shy. He treated his record-breaking football career like it was a routine job, no different than being a plumber or a salesman. He was hounded by the press, but he dreaded talking to them. Unitas was a true team player who never hogged the limelight—in fact, he preferred to see his teammates shine. He was a classic Adam 2.
As discussed, our culture rewards us for cultivating our Adam 1 sides—not Adam 2—which makes it more difficult to choose a righteous moral path. Spending time and effort to get into Princeton or rise to the top seat of a corporation are actions that are praised by our society. Spending time and effort to confront and overcome our weaknesses in order to build character and become a better human being is “invisible” inner work, and doesn’t wind up on our resumés. But we should be cultivating both sides of our nature, whether those actions are rewarded or not.
The good news is that the Adam 1 versus Adam 2 conflict doesn’t require a binary solution. We don’t have to quit our jobs and become monks to live better, more virtuous lives. If everyone did that, our entire economy would collapse. For the sake of our nation’s well-being, we must be productive workers and consumers, we must work hard at school and careers, we must make money and support ourselves. There has to be a functioning Adam 1 inside all of us. The key is not to develop our Adam 1 self at the expense of Adam 2. The two Adams must learn to live side-by-side.
We’ve let Adam 1 grow so large that we have forgotten the wisdom of Adam 2, and we’ve lost the deep, abiding joy of living an Adam 2 life. We need to re-balance the two worldviews.
This “hey, look how great I am” emphasis wasn't always the norm. Our culture used to place a high price tag on humility, self-restraint, and self-discipline. Not only that, but we used to value service to others higher than service to ourselves.
Western thinking once subscribed to the idea of original sin, or what philosopher Immanuel Kant described as "crooked timber" morality. It’s the belief that humans are fundamentally broken, but that our life’s purpose is to confront our brokenness and build a better, stronger character.
Kant’s famous line “out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made” is roughly equivalent to the Christian concept of “original sin.” We are born imperfect, but there are great benefits in struggling to overcome our imperfections. It’s a difficult battle, but it builds character, adds meaning and purpose to our lives, and ultimately makes us happier and more fulfilled.
(Shortform note: Although Kant coined the phase “crooked timber,” it was popularized by historian Isaiah Berlin in his 1959 book The Crooked Timber of Humanity, which discussed the perils of democratic government. The central idea was that since humans are innately flawed, they can’t possibly govern themselves well.)
However, the “crooked timber” school of thought has fallen out of fashion. Today we associate the word “sin” with an old-fashioned Victorian morality that is painfully out of style. In fact, the word “sin” has nearly disappeared from our vocabulary except when we apply it to rich desserts, which are “sinfully” decadent.
We need to start with a language revolution—make the word “sin” common again, using it as it was originally intended—in reference to human nature. The idea that we’re sinners is not a popular notion, but we should revisit it.
Most people under the age of 60 will find this a hard sell. Anyone born after 1965 or thereabouts has grown up with a vastly different mindset. Instead of being taught “I’m inherently flawed and I must work to overcome my flaws,” we were taught "I'm perfect just the way I am." Society has reinforced this message—take a look at most college graduation speeches or popular self-help books. We’re repeatedly told “we’re wonderful just the way we are,” and all we need to do is be true to ourselves. And since we’re all taught to think we’re perfectly fine, it doesn’t occur to us to look deeply and critically at our moral compasses. Self-reflection is viewed as a waste of time. Instead, we tell ourselves to look outward, to show the world just how great we are.
We even instill the “me-focus” in our children, believing it will help them develop strong self-esteem. We teach our children that they are wonderful at the core. Disney cartoons and other children’s media underscore that lesson. Kids’ movies don’t relay the message “I was born a sinner and I must work hard to fix myself,” they say, “You’re perfect—just trust yourself and you can do anything.”
If you’re not comfortable with the word “sin,” there are other labels to describe the moral shift that Americans have experienced in the last century. Moral realism is equivalent to the “crooked timber” or “original sin” school of thought, an idea that dates back to Biblical times. Moral realism, a concept that was widely accepted for centuries, stresses that humans are limited by our inherent weaknesses, so we should not trust our own judgment about ourselves. Virtue is made, not born.
But in the 18th century, moral realism was challenged by moral romanticism. Thinkers like Jean-Jacques Rousseau espoused humanity’s inner goodness, stating that at our core, we were pure. Romanticists trusted in anything that was made by Nature, including humans. We can trust our reasoning and self-direction because we have a “golden cure” that is innately good. As such, humans should listen to their inner voices, which will always point them in the right moral direction.
Both worldviews existed side-by-side for many years, with realism more popular among the working class and romanticism embraced by artists and free-thinkers. But by the late 1940s, moral realism fell by the wayside. After being deprived for nearly 20 years—due to the challenges of the Great Depression and World War II—people were ready to indulge in a more positive worldview. There was a pent-up demand for relaxation and enjoyment. Advertising and consumerism started to frame a new way of living (and thinking). Products were being sold (dishwashers, for example) that made life easier, even more frivolous (televisions, for example). The 1952 self-help book The Power of Positive Thinking had a huge impact on how people envisioned their futures. The zeitgeist became, “Go get what you want out of life—you deserve it.” (Shortform note: To learn more about the ideas that caused this shift, read our summary of The Power of Positive Thinking.)
Initially this new emphasis on self-empowerment and self-esteem had positive effects.
Many people’s lives were improved by the empowerment movement. The new emphasis on self-actualization had huge implications for improving social injustice, especially for women and minorities. In the 1950s and 1960s, marginalized people chose to stand up for their rights and demand better treatment. Women gained greater personal freedoms and more clout in the workplace. Blacks and other minorities demanded and received more equal rights and opportunities. The federal government was forced to create more inclusive laws and institutions.
(Shortform note: As protests across America have shown, there’s still much work to do to eliminate the oppression of Black people, women, and other minority groups.)
But gradually, Americans’ thinking became solely “me-focused.” The downside of believing so firmly in ourselves was that it led to narcissism. Before long the pendulum had swung from a midpoint balance of moral realism and moral romanticism to a nearly complete shift to the latter. Brooks gives a few examples of this cultural shift:
Moral romanticism’s “me-focus” manifests itself in a loss of humility, a key trait for character-building. As recently as the 1940s, Americans admired humility and looked down on narcissism and self-promotion. For example, when World War II ended, Americans were jubilant but also humble. We handled our success in the war with appropriate gravitas—we had just participated in a horrible period of history marked by death and destruction, so it didn't seem right to blow our horns in celebration even though we were “victorious.” In contrast, in today’s world, every time a football player scores a touchdown, he dances a victory jig in the end zone (to the great delight of TV cameras and fans).
In addition to making us unhappy, our “me-focused” thinking and achievement-oriented mindset has created a huge societal loss—we no longer focus our energies on helping out our communities, aiding those less fortunate than us, or working in public service. Today we prioritize actions that serve our own good over the greater good. We think in terms of “how can I live my life to get exactly what I want?” But that’s a very different question than asking ourselves,“What does the world need that I can offer?” or “What does life want from me?”
(Shortform note: This idea echoes John F. Kennedy’s famous line from his inaugural address: “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.” He was challenging every American to contribute in some way to the public good. And long before JFK, Thomas Jefferson said “there is a debt of service from every man to his country.”)
Brooks writes that most of us believe “eulogy virtues” are more important than “resumé virtues, and yet most of us spend more time on the latter.
Consider an average day or week in your life and list the main activities that consume your time. Label each activity with either “R” (for an activity that cultivates a “resumé virtue,” a job-related skill or success) or “E” (for an activity that cultivates a "eulogy virtue," a personality trait that people might talk about at your funeral).
Roughly how many hours do you devote to each category during the average day or week?
What percentage of time do you spend with activities that build up your resumé versus activities that create memories and stories for your eulogy? Are you comfortable with that percentage?
One way to examine how you’re living now is to think about how other people will remember you when you’re gone.
Imagine you're listening in at your own funeral service. What 2-4 characteristics would you like to be remembered for?
Are you actively practicing the virtues that you hope to be remembered for? Why or why not?
Name one “eulogy virtue” that you’d like to develop. What’s one thing you could do today that will help you cultivate that virtue?
So how do we move toward living happier, more fulfilling lives? We can find the answer in the lives of those who achieved it. Chapters 2-9 explore the lives of famous historical figures from different time periods and vastly different backgrounds who exercised humility to their advantage. Each of these people suffered from personal crises in youth or adulthood, but their struggles helped to strengthen their character and taught them to focus on the greater good, not on themselves. Some had serious personality flaws, but by recognizing and admitting to their imperfections and weaknesses, they were able to transform themselves into more virtuous people. Through internal struggle, they built a strong inner character and then offered their services to the world through leadership, activism, writing, or other means.
In this chapter, we’ll examine the life of Frances Perkins, U.S. Secretary of Labor from 1933 to 1945. Known as “the woman behind the New Deal,” she demonstrated the importance of:
Perkins was called into service through a life-changing event—at age 31, she walked out of a Manhattan tea party to witness the Triangle Shirtwaist fire, one of the most famous factory fires in American history, in which 146 garment workers perished. Seeing young working women jump to their deaths from the building's high floors catalyzed Perkins to become a crusader for workers’ rights.
Prior to the Triangle Shirtwaist fire, Perkins lived the way many early-20th-century women with her privileged upbringing did. She was raised in a strict New England Yankee family and graduated from a women's college, Mount Holyoke, in 1902. Her professors had emphasized the importance of sacrificial service, and Perkins hoped she might be able to do something heroic with her life. But she wasn't devoted to any specific cause and didn't have a grasp on her life’s direction.
After college, Perkins floundered for a while, then eventually went to work at Hull House, where affluent women lived with poor and working class people and served as their counselors and advisers. She then moved to New York City to lobby against child labor at the National Consumers League. But although she seemed to be headed toward a life of service, she remained a bit of a dabbler, doing what she believed were "good works" while still clinging to her upscale social standing.
The horror of the factory fire provided the incentive she needed, filling her with righteous indignation and strengthening her resolve. Her upper-middle-class good deeds morphed into a true calling. When she was appointed executive secretary for New York City’s Committee on Safety, she left behind her genteel progressive politics and got her hands dirty, metaphorically speaking. She worked side-by-side with callous and often unscrupulous labor unionists, particularly members of New York's Tammany Hall political machine. She was the only woman in a tough, male-dominated world, but these powerful men came to respect her. Perkins advocated for legislation to make factories safer for workers, to cap the maximum number of hours women could work in a week, and to create a minimum wage.
Although Perkins’s career was noteworthy, she faced many difficulties in both her personal and professional life. As a young woman, she met and married Paul Wilson, who shared her progressive views. They were happy for a while, but soon after Perkins and Wilson had a child together, Wilson began to show signs of bipolar disorder. He was often prone to inexplicable violent ranges, which frightened Perkins. In one of his manic stages, he made a reckless investment and lost all of the family's money. Eventually he was institutionalized, and Perkins had to support him financially. The couple’s daughter inherited his disease, and Perkins also had to caretake and support her, even well into her 70s.
Perkins kept her unhappy private life hidden from public view as she moved through several positions in New York State government, where she worked to enact unemployment insurance laws, end child labor, and improve workplace safety. Although in her later career she helped to create the federal minimum wage, welfare, and other social policies, she didn't use those benefits for her own family. Instead, she continued working so she could pay for their expenses herself. She was an intensely private person, and she believed that her family problems were for her alone to solve.
With every year spent in public service, Perkins became even more deeply dedicated to her cause, despite the fact that the work was contentious and difficult—she was engaged in constant political battles and frequently criticized by the press. In 1933, President Franklin Roosevelt appointed her Secretary of the Department of Labor, the first woman to hold a cabinet position. She worked with FDR to enact social welfare laws and programs as part of the New Deal. At one point, her political enemies tried to get her impeached. She was exhausted, unhappy, and wanted to quit, but FDR would not grant her request to retire. Out of loyalty to him and to her position, she stayed. She was finally released from his cabinet when Truman took office in 1945. She spent the remainder of her years teaching at Cornell, then died alone in a hospital at age 85.
In his discussion of Perkins’s life story, Brooks writes that the definition of a fulfilling vocation is one that utilizes your skills and talents for the benefit of society.
Make a list of 3-5 skills and talents you already possess, whether they are hard skills (“I can write software code”) or soft skills (“I’m good with elderly people and children”).
Now think about what is happening in the world around you—or maybe just in your neighborhood. What is needed right now in your community or society?
Now brainstorm three possible ways you might be able to use your skills and talents to contribute to your community. What might your particular circumstances be calling you to do?
Dwight D. "Ike" Eisenhower, the general who commanded the Allied invasion of France and later became U.S. President, demonstrated the importance of:
Dwight Eisenhower was brought up in a strictly disciplined household. His parents had very little money and six children, all boys. His mother, Ida, forced the boys to learn good discipline and habits from a very young age. She insisted they start their chores at dawn, study for school, and read the Bible aloud daily. Ida gave the boys a lot of love but very little leeway in terms of moral choices. In her home, there were no card games, dancing, or frivolity—she believed that these temptations could lead to greater evils.
The young Eisenhower was smart and athletic, but he struggled with a temper that could easily flare into volcanic rage. In an essay he wrote when he was 76, he described how when he was young, he threw a red-faced tantrum because he wasn’t allowed to go trick-or-treating with his older brothers on Halloween. His father punished him and sent him to bed. Ida came to his room and read to him from the Bible, gently explaining that he needed to learn self-control. Eisenhower described this event as one of the defining moments of his life—learning that he needed to find a way to control his knee-jerk temper.
As a grown man, Eisenhower had two important mentors who contributed to building his character. First was General Fox Conner, who Eisenhower worked underneath for three years in Panama. Conner made Eisenhower his protégé, teaching him key points of war such as “never fight unless you have to.” He also taught him the value of being a humble leader, as exemplified in his motto, “Always take your job seriously, but never yourself.”
Eisenhower’s second important mentor was General Douglas MacArthur, but this relationship was much more rocky. During his thirties, Eisenhower served as MacArthur’s personal assistant in the Philippines, and they often disagreed on policy matters. Being the subordinate, Eisenhower often had to repress his temper. At one point, Eisenhower tried to quit his post, but MacArthur forbade him. Eisenhower’s unhappiness grew, but because he was fiercely loyal to the U.S. Army, he continued to serve MacArthur.
In his first twenty-five years in the Army, Eisenhower's military career was less than stellar. As a college student at West Point, he was often in trouble for fighting with other soldiers. He developed a reputation for having discipline problems. After graduation, he wasn’t sent to combat in World War I, which was a major disappointment. He ranked as only a lieutenant colonel even in his late forties. He didn’t receive his first military star until age 51.
Eisenhower’s personal life was also unhappy. His firstborn son died of scarlet fever at three years old, an event which he called “the greatest disappointment and disaster in my life.”
Since life did not deliver the accolades that Eisenhower craved, he was forced into learning patience. He had no outlet for his internal anger, but his childhood lessons in self-restraint helped him to manage his disappointment. He graciously accepted whatever military position he was assigned, and he did each job to the best of his ability. He created an artificial persona of outward cheerfulness even while he struggled inwardly to repress his fiery temper.
Eisenhower developed a special technique for managing his anger. If someone crossed him, he would write down his or her name on a piece of paper, crumple it up, and toss it in his wastebasket. Then he could pretend the person was of no consequence. He often used this technique when he was criticized by news journalists. One of his more famous quotes is “Never waste a minute thinking about people you don’t like.”
His strategy of waiting patiently and practicing self-restraint eventually paid off. During World War II, he became a five-star general and served as Supreme Commander of the Allied forces in Europe. His military victory led to him being elected President in 1952. He served for two terms, governing with careful moderation and balance. He believed that he could never make perfect decisions—there was too much conflict between rival interests to make it possible to please everyone—so he focused on making small moves in a very large political chess game. He was known for his ability to make adjustments and shift policies in response to changing circumstances.
Dorothy Day, an American journalist-turned-activist who founded the Catholic Worker movement and the newspaper The Catholic Worker, advocated for the poor and the homeless during the Depression. She demonstrated the importance of:
From early childhood, Day had a deep sense of God’s presence in the world. She was eight years old and alone in San Francisco during the city’s epic 1906 earthquake. She experienced the horrifying shaking as the work of an almighty, impersonal God. She also saw how people pulled together in the quake’s aftermath—neighbors helping neighbors. That memory—of people coming together during times of crisis—influenced her entire life.
Despite realizing God’s presence, for most of her first 25 years Day kept herself at arm's length from organized religion. Instead, she developed a strong interest in the social writings of early 20th century progressives and revolutionaries. She joined the American Socialist Party during college, and soon got a job as a cub reporter for a New York socialist newspaper. In her twenties, she wrote stories about poor working class people while she lived the life of a free-spirited Bohemian—a hippie before the time of hippies. She developed a fondness for alcohol and was always happy to be someone’s drinking partner. She fell in love with brooding, difficult men. She lived through a failed marriage and an abortion.
The young Day drifted through her “party girl” years, searching for something meaningful to ground her. Two major turning points helped to provide the heroic life purpose she needed—and also pushed her toward Catholicism. The first was the birth of her daughter, Tamar. Day saw the miracle of childbirth as an expression of something bigger than herself—an obvious example of God's love. Day wanted to give Tamar a religious foundation, believing that this would help her child to live a better life than Day had lived. In order to have Tamar baptized, Day had to learn the catechism, which led to her growing interest in Catholicism. Eventually Day herself was also baptized.
The second major turning point occurred in 1932 when she met Peter Maurin, a French peasant, political radical, and street philosopher who led Day to her full immersion in Catholicism. Maurin introduced her to an entirely new set of Roman Catholic philanthropic teachings—particularly the idea that performing works of mercy requires self-sacrifice. The pair co-founded the Catholic Worker movement. They opened up more than 100 Catholic "houses of hospitality" to aid the poor, started numerous agricultural communes where farmers and scholars could work together and live off the land, and published The Catholic Worker newspaper for more than 40 years.
Day's early years were filled with many "anti-Catholic" life experiences, like drinking to excess, having a child out of wedlock, and choosing to have an abortion. She later wrote that her alcoholism and depression during this period were related to the fact that she was unable to be satisfied with everyday pleasures. She required a transcendent purpose to give shape to her life.
As Day matured, she did not regret her youthful party-girl experiences or feel guilty about them. Instead, she fully embraced God's grace and recognized that her mistakes were critical to her spiritual resolve. She saw how understanding and forgiving her imperfections would help her be generous with others. She believed that her personal struggles—and others’ personal struggles—could be used as a force for good.
Although Day’s inner conflict found a sense of calm in the Catholic Worker movement, her life was still filled with external conflict. Both the Catholic Worker movement and Day herself were subject to much criticism. A fervent pacifist, Day opposed the Spanish Civil War and also World War II, a view which many other Catholics disagreed with. Her movement lost many supporters during the war years as her commitment to nonviolence and pacifism increased. After Hiroshima, Day was jailed three times for protesting against the atomic bomb.
But even as she aged, Day remained stalwart in her beliefs, and she continued to advocate for causes that mattered to her. In the 1960s, she repeatedly spoke out against the Vietnam War, and in 1973, at age 76, she was arrested for protesting alongside Cesar Chavez against the Teamsters Union.
George Catlett Marshall, the Army general who led America through World War II and created a plan to rebuild Europe after the war, demonstrated the importance of:
Born in 1880, George Marshall’s early years were mostly a disappointment. He was a poor student in school and undisciplined at home. When he wanted to follow his older brother to the Virginia Military Institute, his brother begged their parents not to let him go for fear he would embarrass the family.
But Marshall proved his brother wrong. He blossomed at VMI, a school that emphasized honor, self-control, and service. The regimentation suited him perfectly. Like most first-year students at the school, Marshall was hazed and bullied by upperclassmen, but he held on to his dignity and toughened up under peer pressure. His teachers taught him to revere history’s heroes from George Washington to Joan of Arc, and those lessons stuck with Marshall. By the time he graduated from VMI, he had mastered both military skills and self-control.
Much like his contemporary Dwight Eisenhower, Marshall’s career did not take off quickly. He held several minor Army staff positions, and at age 39, he ranked only as lieutenant colonel. Still, he forced down his pride and did whatever job he was assigned, which was almost always administrative and rather dull. But his sense of duty always prevailed. He didn’t complain about his posts, and he never “blew his own horn” in order to be considered for better positions. His nature was quiet, reserved, and subservient.
Marshall became a studious master of logistics and was hired as General John Pershing’s assistant. This was not the job he hoped for, but because of his institutional mindset, he graciously accepted the assignment. Meanwhile, his personal life was dealt a harsh blow—while working for Pershing in Washington, Marshall’s beloved wife Lily died of a heart condition. Alone and heart-broken, he continued to be passed over for military positions he coveted.
Eventually in 1939, President Franklin D. Roosevelt needed a new chief of staff, and Marshall was chosen for his skill in logistics and organization. He excelled in the role even when he had to end the careers of hundreds of military men. Because of his great dignity, even his toughest decisions were respected by his soldiers.
In the midst of World War II, the Allies needed a commander for the invasion of France. Marshall badly wanted the job, but when Roosevelt asked Marshall point-blank if he should be given the position, Marshall didn’t advocate for himself. Instead he told him the President to do what he thought was best. Roosevelt believed Marshall was doing a great job in Washington, so he didn’t want to make changes. He selected Eisenhower to command the Allied forces instead of Marshall.
It was another crushing blow to his career, but Marshall took it in stride. Eisenhower became a great war hero while Marshall continued to work largely behind the scenes.
After World War II, Marshall tried to retire, but then-president Truman kept giving him additional roles—first as ambassador to China, then as Secretary of State. Marshall of course accepted. But this is where his star finally rose—as Secretary of State, Marshall authored and enacted the plan to rebuild Europe after the war, which he humbly called the “European Recovery Plan” even though everyone else called it the Marshall Plan. His quiet, dignified leadership led to him winning the Nobel Peace Prize in 1953.
A popular periodical once offered Marshall more than $1 million for his life story, but he turned down the offer because he feared embarrassing people he had worked with. As always with Marshall, duty prevailed over glory, fame, and even a huge amount of money.
When Marshall died at age 79, his funeral instructions stated that he wanted to be buried without fuss, “like any ordinary officer of the US Army.” His colleagues remember him best for his integrity and dedication to the Army as an institution.
One of America’s most prominent civil rights activists, Asa Philip Randolph organized the first predominantly Black labor union in 1925. Randolph demonstrated the importance of:
Born in Jacksonville, Florida in 1889, A. Philip Randolph learned from his minister father that a person's behavior was far more important than his skin color. His parents preached the importance of strict posture, formal manners, meticulous speech, and elevated intellectual endeavors. His father and other prominent Black church figures taught him that Black liberation could be achieved through political action and intellectual discourse rather than bloody revolution. The family lived in a time and place of blatant racism, but Randolph was taught to fall back on “gentlemanly conduct” at all times, which meant responding to every slur with civility, humility, and dignity.
As a student, Randolph excelled in academics, sports, and drama. After high school, he moved to New York to become a Shakespearean actor, but in taking college classes he became interested in Karl Marx and socialist ideals. He joined the American Socialist Party and quickly rose through its ranks. By 1917, he and a colleague had started the first Black American magazine, Messenger, which had a socialist agenda. During World War I and the post-war era, he became active in the burgeoning civil rights movement, helping to form the first Black American union. He used his talents in public speaking and his gentle, well-mannered demeanor to advance workers’ rights and battle against racial discrimination in the workplace.
Randolph was a pioneer in advocating nonviolent resistance. In 1940, when President Franklin D. Roosevelt refused to issue an executive order banning discrimination against Black workers in the defense industry, Randolph called for "10,000 loyal Negro American citizens" to march on Washington, D.C. His well-organized plans for a massive nonviolent protest forced Roosevelt’s hand. To prevent the march from happening, the President issued an executive order that put an end to discrimination in the defense industries and government jobs.
At age 36, Randolph was asked to lead an effort to organize the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters, the first Black American union. For 12 years, he helped the porters fight for better pay and working conditions. Successful at first, Randolph’s efforts at creating the union nearly ended in disaster during the Depression, when the Pullman Company—the porters’ employer—threatened to fire any employee who voted to strike. Union membership dropped from 7,000 porters to 771.
Randolph gave up his salary and his office and continued to support the fledgling union despite receiving no income and falling into poverty. He turned down a good-paying job with New York City so he could continue his efforts. He rejected financial donations by sympathetic whites, saying that Blacks had to win their victory on their own—which eventually they did.
Randolph went on to advocate for increasing the number of Black Americans in federal jobs and to end military segregation (“Jim Crow” rules). He fought his political battles with genteel reasoning and quiet dignity. His associates often disagreed with his unfailing policy of good manners and politeness, but he persisted. Randolph said he sought not just civil rights for Blacks, but also respect. He did not agree with the revolutionary tactics of the Black Power movement—instead, he believed in the quiet power of sit-ins and prayer protests.
Randolph became the most widely known spokesperson for Black working-class interests in America. Although his name is much less known than Dr. Martin Luther King’s, his work set the standard for the nonviolent protests and civil disobedience of the 1950s and 1960s civil rights movement.
Author of the masterpiece novel Middlemarch and numerous other writings, author George Eliot demonstrated the importance of:
The novelist George Eliot was born in England in 1819 under the name Mary Anne Evans. She was sent to boarding school at five years old, her mother died when she was 15, and then she was forced to return home to serve as her father’s housekeeper. Her only ally was her older brother, who eventually abandoned her.
Mary Anne lived in a time when there was no such thing as higher education for women, but her natural intelligence and curiosity drove her to become a voracious reader. Her constant devouring of books was her way of searching for meaning, and by her late teens, she thought she had found her answers in Christianity. She became a religious extremist, alienating all her friends with her puritan views, but then a few years later, she rejected Christianity altogether. She created a huge rift with her father at age 23 when she told him she would no longer go to church with him.
Heavily influenced by every book that she read and every conversation she had, Mary Anne drifted from one philosophy to another, never quite finding an anchor for her mind or heart. She felt fragmented and lost. In her quest for a philosophy that would solidify her moral vision, she struggled with endless internal anguish. But at the same time, she was becoming her own person. Her desire for intellectual honesty was greater than her desire to agree with her family or society.
Eventually Mary Anne compromised with her father and agreed to accompany him to church as long as he didn’t force his Christian views on her. She and her father reconciled, and Mary Anne learned a valuable lesson about tolerance and moderation in relationships. Not every disagreement required renouncement. People had differing opinions on all kinds of subjects, and they could agree to disagree. This insight into the complexities of human nature and relationships would later play out in her novels’s characters.
In her early 20s, Mary Anne had short-lived, torrid affairs with almost every man who paid attention to her. Her ego craved male attention but was never satisfied. She became involved with several married and/or unavailable men, and each affair ended unhappily. Afterward, she would collapse into bouts of depression, hysteria, and self-centeredness.
It was hard for Mary Anne to find a partner who was her intellectual equal. If she found a man who could keep up with her conversation, she fell in love. She was like a free-floating obsession looking for something, or someone, to attach to.
At age 32, Mary Anne fell in love with the philosopher Herbert Spencer, who was a solid match for her intellect. Spencer enjoyed her company but wasn’t physically attracted to her (Mary Anne was famously homely). His rejection of her was the catalyst for her maturation. She finally knew what kind of life and what kind of partner she wanted, and that ideal came to fruition when she met writer George Lewes at a bookshop in 1851. They fell in love over shared intellectual ideas, and she spent the next 24 years with him, transforming from needy and desperate to centered and mature.
Nonetheless, their love came at a great cost. Lewes was technically married although his wife didn’t live with him (in fact, she lived with another man and they even had children together). But according to the norms of the day, Mary Anne and Lewes were committing adultery, an unforgivable scandal in their social circles.
In keeping with the thinking of the times, the onus of their relationship was on Mary Anne, not Lewes. She became known as a homewrecker and a husband-stealer. Her family and friends renounced her, and she was cut off from polite society. She knew that her decision to live with Lewes would make her an outcast, but she chose his love at the expense of her social and family connections. She committed herself fully to him, calling herself “Mrs. Lewes” even though British law would never permit it to be true.
Being a social outcast did not hurt Eliot’s genius—instead, it inspired it. The years she spent with Lewes were her most productive. Lewes persuaded her to try writing novels instead of essays, which resulted in her most acclaimed works (and also led to her name change to George Eliot, a name she took to hide her “unseemly” identity). Her decades-long relationship with Lewes changed her from someone who was temperamental, reckless, and impulsive to a mature adult who was able to create soul-searching fiction. In sacrificing her place in society, she had taken agency over her own life. She became a more sympathetic and understanding human being by opening herself up to selfless love, turning away from others’ criticisms, and developing her own sense of right and wrong.
St. Augustine, a 4th-century theologian who learned to reject his fleeting human desires and surrender himself to God and grace, demonstrated the importance of:
Augustine was born in 354 AD in what is now Algeria. His mother, Monica, was a devout member of the African Christian community and wanted her son to be equally devoted to God. But the young Augustine didn't feel drawn to religion and saw his mother as smothering and possessive.
A brilliant student, Augustine often felt bored by his studies. He was such a high achiever that a wealthy patron chose to sponsor his higher education, which led him to a university in Carthage at age 17. There he was consumed with lust. His ego required the love of many women (it’s conceivable that he may have had what today we call a love or sex addiction).
Meanwhile, Augustine’s social life and career took off. He excelled in school, graduated and became a respected teacher. He traveled in prestigious circles and joined an intellectual sect known as the Manicheans, which was filled with smart, upwardly mobile men like himself who saw themselves as superior to others. He even took a lower-class common-law wife, a common practice among men of his social standing.
By most measures, Augustine was a success, but he did not feel like one internally. While he craved earthly pleasures, he was simultaneously repulsed by his own cravings. By his late 20s, he was ravaged by inner turmoil. He had devoted his entire life to pursuing whatever selfish desire he had at the moment, but he never felt fulfilled. He knew that the way he was living was not making him happy, but he didn't know how to stop chasing after his superficial desires.
Augustine decided it was time to take stock of himself. He looked inward, examining his own psyche. In doing so, he came to the conclusion that although he had been born with great talents and qualities, they had been usurped by "original sin." He could not stop himself from wanting things that did not bring him any joy. Augustine decided that our human desires create problems for us and are often self-destructive, therefore we should not trust our own desires.
In his epic memoir Confessions—written late in his life—he gives us an example of his pointlessly self-destructive tendencies. He describes an event from his teenage years when he and some friends stole pears from a local orchard. They didn't even eat the pears; they tossed them to some pigs. Augustine wrote that he did this nonsensical act simply because the act of stealing was a thrill. In his view, humans commit small crimes all the time, not for any reason except that we are born sinners. We not only sin; we enjoy the act of sinning.
As part of his self-reflection, Augustine observed that his own mind—and every human mind, he assumed—is much more powerful than we realize. The mind is capable of moments of perfection and transcendence, but it's not our default mode. Each of us has an inner sense of goodness or holiness, and if we can just rise above our tendency to sin, we can reach up to touch that goodness. If we look beyond our own pathetic little human lives, we might find something holy. Essentially, Augustine was sensing that a higher power exists, and that it exists beyond the realm of human beings.
But Augustine was not yet ready to give up the belief that he could control his life. He began to reform his behavior, beginning with quitting his "men's club," the Manicheans. He decided that if he just worked harder, used stronger willpower, and made better decisions, his life would improve. But this turned out to be false. He soon realized that he had to return to his earlier insights—that humans are not capable of steering their own ships. As long as he believed that he was driving his own life and that his efforts could make or break his happiness, he was going to be unhappy.
Ultimately, Augustine commanded himself to deflate his own ego and recognize that God was in charge of his life. The final tipping point came when his friend told him about a group of uneducated monks in Egypt who renounced everything in order to serve God. He fell to his knees and wept, realizing that all he needed to do was say "no" to his petty human desires, which would open the door for much higher and more fulfilling pleasures. He heard a child's voice speaking from the ether; the voice told him to "take up and read," which he took to mean the Scriptures. He converted to Catholicism soon thereafter, realizing that his own human efforts and achievements would always leave him unsatisfied, and that the only route to joy was to surrender his own will to God's will.
After his conversion, Augustine reunited with his mother, Monica, and they shared many beautiful moments of communion over their shared love of God.
The brilliant writer and critic Samuel Johnson, who made major contributions to English literature in the 18th century as a poet, playwright, essayist, moralist, literary critic, biographer, and editor, demonstrated the importance of:
Johnson’s Character Development
Johnson was born in the town of Lichfield, England in 1709. He was disadvantaged from the start. Not only was Johnson's family poor, but the young boy suffered from a range of physical and psychological maladies. Nonetheless, Johnson’s remarkable intellect was apparent at a young age. He studied languages, literature, and theology at Oxford University, but he did not have the funds to be able to complete his degree. After leaving Oxford, he fell into a four-year-long depression and his physical health worsened.
Johnson struggled with his chronic poor health, but he tried not to slip into self-indulgence. He hated the idea of coddling himself because he was ill. In Johnson’s brand of Christianity, God was more demanding than forgiving. Johnson’s God had high expectations. Concerned about being judged inadequate by both his peers and God, Johnson forced himself to work hard at self-improvement. One of his biggest concerns was that he was lazy. His diary entries are filled with self-criticism and vows to work harder and organize his time better.
He pulled himself out of despair by subscribing to self-exploration and moral inquiry, believing that most problems are moral problems. He came to realize that he would never be able to conquer his multitude of flaws, but that he could learn to manage them better. He believed there was grace in moral combat—a constant striving to be a better human being. As he made peace with his own failings, he also learned to take a sympathetic view of others’ failings. Seeing sorrow everywhere in the world, he preached charity and mercy.
Eventually, despite his odd demeanor and unwieldy manners, Johnson became a highly respected writer and pundit at the center of London’s social life. Many of Johnson's works are still taught in college English classes today, but his most famous contribution was his creation of the first important dictionary of the English language. When the first edition was published in 1755, it was considered a masterpiece of literary achievement. He was granted a royal pension and honorary degrees from Dublin's Trinity College and Oxford University, which afforded him the title "Dr. Johnson."
Much of what we know about Johnson today is from his biographer, James Boswell, who wrote an intimate account of a cultural icon that is still considered one of the greatest English-language biographies.
Samuel Johnson had a multitude of physical and psychological ailments starting from the very beginning of his life. He contracted smallpox, was deaf in his left ear, had eyesight problems, and suffered from depression. His childhood was made worse by his parents, who suffered from financial problems and often fought bitterly. The boy was often left to fend for himself.
Johnson’s twenties weren't much better. After his short stint at Oxford, he suffered a massive emotional collapse. In the midst of it, he developed what we would now call Tourette syndrome—involuntary tics, gesticulations, and oral outbursts. His poor health and unreliable mental state made it hard for Johnson to find work. His psychological issues elevated from general melancholy to insomnia and drug and alcohol addiction. His body also declined from obesity, heart failure, gout, and stroke.
By any measure, Johnson was an odd, awkward person—he was an enormous, slovenly man, with a face scarred by smallpox. His convulsive tremors and outbursts frightened people. But at 26, Johnson had the good fortune to meet a wealthy widow, whom he soon fell in love with and married.
He started a boarding school with his wife’s money, but the school quickly went bankrupt. Soon thereafter, he moved to London in the hope of making a living as a writer, but to his despair, his wife refused to accompany him. Johnson sometimes walked the streets all night because he couldn’t afford even the cheapest lodging.
Although his physical ailments continued to plague him, he began to support himself by writing for London magazines and publishing houses. He gained notoriety for his sharp wit and extraordinary writing skill. Despite his odd demeanor, as soon as he began to speak, people listened. Johnson's brilliant conversations—and his writings—mixed thoughtful insights with carefully crafted humor.
After many years of feeling like the odd man out, Johnson at last found his place, both professionally and personally. As he matured to the point that he could look unflinchingly at his own flaws, he also saw the flawed nature of the world around him, and he developed a sensitivity to the plight of others. He had spent so much of his life overcoming physical suffering and disfiguration that it gave him a huge capacity for empathy. In his social life and in his literary works, he equally embraced wealthy intellectuals and the impoverished masses—every single human was another worthy example of the complexity of humanity. Johnson even welcomed his critics—he thought it better to be criticized than overlooked.
In his later years, Johnson’s writing often focused on the theme of humans’ unending quest for goodness, and how that quest is always futile. But he never stopped believing there was glory to be found in the pursuit.
What lessons can we learn from these great figures? How do we rebuild our character, strengthen our moral code, and find a deeper sense of meaning in our existence?
To help us recalibrate our moral compasses, Brooks outlines a 15-point Humility Code in the final chapter of the book. Following this code will help us circumvent our tendency for narcissism, help us live more virtuous lives, and ultimately make us happier, better people. These are his 15 guiding principles for building character, organized by theme:
The 15 points outlined above give us a set of guidelines for building our character and living a more virtuous life.
Which of these points resonates most deeply with you, and why?
Choose one guideline that you think you could realistically start implementing right now. What steps will you take to implement it?