To be remembered: Bertrand Arthur William Russell (1872-1970). Born 15o years ago today; renowned mathematician and logician, a founder of analytic philosophy, a prolific (and accessible) writer and commentator of the 20th century, a Nobel Prize for Literature laureate, an influential public intellectual and a voice for peace – and as such one with particular resonance at this time.
Because birthdays, one’s own or that of another, always seem to inspire reflection on the passing years, Russell’s short essay contemplating (and so titled) “How to Grow Old” (from his 1956 collection Portraits from Memory and Other Essays at the Internet Archive) is a fitting read. It’s simple and entertaining and it’s message is timeless, and begins by restating its purpose as actually being concerned with how not to grow old. In a nutshell: genetic disposition is one thing, health issues another, but the greatest dangers lay in nostalgia and regret, and clinging to the past and to a world of youth that is no longer yours. Rather, one should look to the future and pursue a broad range of interests, the more impersonal the better. His essay nears its end with the difficult contemplation of death that faces us all, and described with the metaphorical river of life.
[…]Make your interests gradually wider and more impersonal, until bit by bit the walls of the ego recede, and your life becomes increasingly merged in the universal life. An individual human existence should be like a river — small at first, narrowly contained within its banks, and rushing passionately past rocks and over waterfalls. Gradually the river grows wider, the banks recede, the waters flow more quietly, and in the end, without any visible break, they become merged in the sea, and painlessly lose their individual being.[…]
from the essay “How to Grow Old” by Bertrand Russell.
Bertrand Russell by Lady Ottoline Morrell, vintage snapshot print 1920, © National Portrait Gallery, London
Sometimes referred to as Mr. Russell, with sly, good-humored respect one may presume, but for Virginia Woolf (and for our photographer above, Ottoline Morrell), more often than not, he was just plain Bertie – another of the brilliant, mercurial, imperfect figures that entered her sphere through family and acquaintance. So, as Woolf may well have proclaimed should she have encountered him on any 18th May: Happy Birthday, Bertie!