My question about a personal myth arises from the assertion of the fictional General Conyers, in Anthony Powell’s series of twelve connected novels, “A Dance to the Music of Time. 1 General Conyers is a man wise with the lived experience of his 80 years.
“The General, speaking one felt with authority, always insisted that, if you bring off adequate preservation of your personal myth, nothing much else in life matters. It is not what happens to people that is significant, but what they think happens to them”.
By “myth” the General does not mean a set of lies or fables, but an overarching theme that can bring the strands of your life together. He gives his advice at a posh party to the novel’s twentysomething protagonist, who of course has no current clue what his myth is, or what it will ever be.
The General’s myth might be “I served my country well” or “I always acted with the honour of a soldier.” I suspect the General’s myth is his shield against facing his mortality.
A corporation’s myth might be its tagline. Disney’s “The Happiest Place On Earth” or Nike’s “Just Do it.”
Two opposite and pernicious paths present themselves.
On the one hand, compared to the vastness of time and the vastness of the universe, making any meaning of one’s individual life can seem absurd. A hopeless delusion of significance.
Conversely, people can have a delusion of grandeur, convincing themselves they are on a mission of great scope, which only they, uniquely, can accomplish. “I am saving the planet from certain destruction,” I am making the world Safe for Democracy, “I am ridding the world of capitalism.” The three most destructive dictators of the 20th century–– Hitler, Stalin, and Mao–––all had their delusionary myths.
As I approached and then recently turned sixty, I found myself thinking more about concepts like a personal myth, in part I think as a shield against the known and inevitable consequences of aging. Consequences that flutter about in the back of my mind. Consequences such as the constriction of the number of possible paths my life might take, my increasing interest in reading the obituary pages, the decline of my physical vigor.
Although the word “myth” as I’ve used it has intimations of “legacy,” I think a legacy has less to do with the life you live and more to do with what you leave behind after you’re gone. In this regard, to me at least, a myth has far more relevance and self-satisfaction than legacy. I might make certain logistical preparations for life, post-me, but these preparations are more theoretical and less real to me than the swallow of coffee I just drank or the breeze I just felt on my cheek.
Besides, both my brain and my heart hurt when I try to think of life, post-me.
So, I’m taking General Conyer’s advice and working on my “myth,” trying to figure out the shield that can protect me best.
The myth that seems to appeal to me most is based on a certain smallness, a certain circumscribing of my chosen fields of battle. Discrete instances of making a positive difference. Family and friends, obviously. But also, this happened early this morning in a village street. I stopped and had a conversation with a stranger who seemed lonely and in need of someone to talk to about the children’s book he was writing. That was a small win.
One of my sons once heard a business cliché from a former boss. “You win by winning.” At the time, this seemed to my son like the silliest type of meaningless corporate doublespeak. But, a year or so later, while running his own company, he gleaned the wisdom of what his boss had said and passed it on to me. No success or victory is too small to be insignificant. Each interaction with a customer, a vendor, or a fellow employee is an opportunity for a “win.” It is these small wins that are the surest path to overall winning.
I suppose my writing this substack is one way I’m trying to achieve a few small wins. If I can provide value of some sort or be useful to a few people through my writing, then those are a series of small wins. Certainly nothing grand, perhaps evanescent, but not meaningless.
Being useful is how I see my myth and how I see myself building my shield. Little bit by little bit.
Dance to the Music of Time is an ambitious but addicitive reading project of some 3,000 pages. Once described as if Proust had been translated by P.G. Wodehouse.
Very moving. Brought to mind Viktor Frankl's classic "Man's Search for Meaning". I would suspect that a person's "myth" may not be singular and may be redefined over time.
Very profound and touching. "Myth" might need a rebrand though.