约翰·博因顿·普里斯特利/John Boynton Priestley
This matter of other people's learning and accomplishments has been worrying me for some time. I never read the life of any important person without discovering that he knew more and could do more than I could ever hope to know or to do in half a dozen lifetimes. To begin with, unless these people chance to be obvious invalids like Stevenson or Chehov, they are always tremendous athletes, with surprising strength, powers of endurance, and so forth.
They could all walk and run and climb our heads off, even when they were seventy. Then they all have the gift of tongues. You never catch a glimpse of them sitting down to learn a new language, not even running an eye over its irregular verbs, yet it is admitted that they speak any number with an astonishing fluency and purity of accent. They never confine themselves to one science, but are inevitably masters of several. The big book of Nature they know by heart. Only the other day I was reading an account of a great novelist, a most sophisticated and subtle person, and was told that he knew the name and habits and history of every wild flower and plant and tree and bird in the country. Nor is that all. There is not one of these bigwigs who is not ( I quote the customary phrases ) a sensitive and accomplished musician, or an extraordinarily fine amateur water-colourist, or the possessor of a magnificent prose style. We are always told that, had circumstance been different, their talents were such that they need only have given their serious attention to one or other of these arts to have procured for themselves lasting and perhaps world-wide reputations. So runs the legend of the eulogist.
I am baffled. How is it done? I ask the question again, my voice rises to a scream of envy and vexation. Consider what is involved in this matter (so lightly touched upon and dismissed) of music or water-colour painting or fine writing, what years of serious application, of drudgery at the keyboard, the easel, or the writing desk. It is one thing to strum on the piano, as you and I do, faking the left hand passages as we go along, or to daub a few patchy water colours, or to paste on to clumsy prose some old spangles of rhetoric, and it is quite another thing to be an accomplished musician or artist or writer. If the first were meant, I could understand it; but the second and as a mere recreation, too! And then to add the athleticism, the sciences, the tongues, the natural history! I am bewildered and crushed. The very idle rumour of fellow-creatures so wonderfully gifted makes me dwindle in my own estimation to the size of a gnat.