Toe in the Water

Greatness

Greatness

I was pondering on my complete insignificance today, and it suddenly occurred to me that Shakespeare never knew how great he was. Dickens scraped a living writing serials for newspapers, and Salinger caught a glimpse of himself one day, then went off to Vermont to live as a recluse. Old Mark Twain was too busy thinking up aphorisms to have any idea of how celebrated he was going to be, and Dylan Thomas drank himself to death, so unhappy with his lot was he.

Just think of it, the Bard scribbling away backstage in a frantic quest to save his acting company, with no understanding of how his words would one day be regarded as the greatest ever written. And the others living their lives quietly as though they were nothing but ordinary men (I’m sure the women were just the same). Amongst writers, greatness never knows itself.

Oh sure, there are plenty who are convinced that they have sliced bread beaten and disgraced. But these are the little ones, the celebrities whose light will fade and their works be forgotten within a century. Only time awards the title “Great.”

So be of good cheer, brothers and sisters. For all we know, future ages might marvel at our work and wonder how such magnificent minds managed to live in so ordinary a world.


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