Just another exam to go

This is the end day of semester of mine woohoo

in reference to: Do u feel like eating Whitey Melon? (view on Google Sidewiki)

Eating today

Eatng for just 900 Kcal
I can't believe it

in reference to: Do u feel like eating Whitey Melon? (view on Google Sidewiki)

My exercises

Body Combat for 1 hour at 5 o clock
Burned 300 Kcal

in reference to: Google Sidewiki (view on Google Sidewiki)

Night Aim @ Commune

Dental Laboratory

Lab work

And these are my lunch and dinner! For 28-09-09




Very healthy, haa



These are my Lab work for the last smester

100 HOT Challenge

Dinner

aliZa m., on September 27th, 2009 at 12:31 am Said:

I’m in. Sounds really interesting

1.Be a complete vegetarian, I’ve stopped eating meat for a month now

2.Lose 11 kg, (lost 1kg for the last two weeks)

3.Save money for a new mountain bike for my new weight, body at the end of the year

4.Drink lots of water a day, more than 8 cups

my first diet

May plans

I can LOSE WEIGHT! 5 KG in a month!
With everyday excercises & less eating!

MAY - My life plans
1-5 Tukta & Dew trip to CM
5-22 May @ Bangkok
10 My BD
13 Sa-EE
14
15 Ye-ee
16 GF
12-14 Give away presents
16 6/1 Meeting
17 DeeDee's Show + Afternoon FootBall Game
18 BunDit's seminar with Ye-ee + Trio Concert
21-22 Prajuab Trip with DENT
23 Run's BD
24 P'Mem's Wedding with KUNG BEing @ 60 KG
28 Praew's BD
24

Hello people

A semester passed

 

It's hard to admit that I've lived a semester here in Chiang Mai at the faculty of dentistry, a study field that I've never had imagined studying in. The semester passed as easy as I expected, because at the time of getting into the university I knew that I have gained such a brilliant experience in the old school that taught me a lot of how to live in a big society with such a huge number of population, even larger that here. I'd like to make a clear declaration of why I'm studying dentistry here, but not accounting at Thammasat the university I've always dreamt of. First of all, I want to have my own living, buy my own stuffs, take care of myself, be free! But just so u know that it's never been easy for a teenager to change the lifestyle rapidly from being cooked for, taken care of at home, picked up everytime u want, to a life that requires u to buy yourself three meals a day and pay your own transportation fees.

Preface, but read it last

This book is from http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext00/24hrs11.txt
How to Live on Twenty-Four Hours a Day
by Arnold Bennett


PREFACE TO THIS EDITION

This preface, though placed at the beginning, as a preface must be,should be read at the end of the book.I have received a large amount of correspondence concerning thissmall work, and many reviews of it--some of them nearly as longas the book itself--have been printed. But scarcely any of thecomment has been adverse. Some people have objected to afrivolity of tone; but as the tone is not, in my opinion, at allfrivolous, this objection did not impress me; and had no weightierreproach been put forward I might almost have been persuaded thatthe volume was flawless!

A more serious stricture has, however,been offered--not in the press, but by sundry obviously sincerecorrespondents--and I must deal with it. A reference to page 43will show that I anticipated and feared this disapprobation. Thesentence against which protests have been made is as follows:--"In the majority of instances he [the typical man] does notprecisely feel a passion for his business; at best he does notdislike it. He begins his business functions with some reluctance,as late as he can, and he ends them with joy, as early as he can.And his engines, while he is engaged in his business, are seldom attheir full 'h.p.'"I am assured, in accents of unmistakable sincerity, that there aremany business men--not merely those in high positions or with fineprospects, but modest subordinates with no hope of ever beingmuch better off--who do enjoy their business functions, who do notshirk them, who do not arrive at the office as late as possible anddepart as early as possible, who, in a word, put the whole of theirforce into their day's work and are genuinely fatigued at the endthereof.

I am ready to believe it. I do believe it. I know it. I alwaysknew it. Both in London and in the provinces it has been my lot tospend long years in subordinate situations of business; and the factdid not escape me that a certain proportion of my peers showed whatamounted to an honest passion for their duties, and that whileengaged in those duties they were really *living* to the fullestextent of which they were capable. But I remain convinced thatthese fortunate and happy individuals (happier perhaps than theyguessed) did not and do not constitute a majority, or anything likea majority. I remain convinced that the majority of decent averageconscientious men of business (men with aspirations and ideals) donot as a rule go home of a night genuinely tired. I remainconvinced that they put not as much but as little of themselves asthey conscientiously can into the earning of a livelihood, and thattheir vocation bores rather than interests them.Nevertheless, I admit that the minority is of sufficient importanceto merit attention, and that I ought not to have ignored it socompletely as I did do.

The whole difficulty of the hard-workingminority was put in a single colloquial sentence by one of mycorrespondents. He wrote: "I am just as keen as anyone on doingsomething to 'exceed my programme,' but allow me to tell you thatwhen I get home at six thirty p.m. I am not anything like so freshas you seem to imagine."Now I must point out that the case of the minority, who throwthemselves with passion and gusto into their daily business task, isinfinitely less deplorable than the case of the majority, who gohalf-heartedly and feebly through their official day. The formerare less in need of advice "how to live." At any rate during theirofficial day of, say, eight hours they are really alive; theirengines are giving the full indicated "h.p." The other eightworking hours of their day may be badly organised, or even fritteredaway; but it is less disastrous to waste eight hours a day thansixteen hours a day; it is better to have lived a bit than never tohave lived at all.

The real tragedy is the tragedy of the man who isbraced to effort neither in the office nor out of it, and to thisman this book is primarily addressed. "But," says the other andmore fortunate man, "although my ordinary programme is bigger thanhis, I want to exceed my programme too! I am living a bit; I wantto live more. But I really can't do another day's work on the top ofmy official day."The fact is, I, the author, ought to have foreseen that I shouldappeal most strongly to those who already had an interest inexistence. It is always the man who has tasted life who demandsmore of it. And it is always the man who never gets out of bedwho is the most difficult to rouse.Well, you of the minority, let us assume that the intensity of yourdaily money-getting will not allow you to carry out quite all thesuggestions in the following pages. Some of the suggestions mayyet stand.

I admit that you may not be able to use the time spenton the journey home at night; but the suggestion for the journey tothe office in the morning is as practicable for you as for anybody.And that weekly interval of forty hours, from Saturday to Monday, isyours just as much as the other man's, though a slight accumulationof fatigue may prevent you from employing the whole of your "h.p."upon it. There remains, then, the important portion of the three ormore evenings a week. You tell me flatly that you are too tired todo anything outside your programme at night. In reply to which Itell you flatly that if your ordinary day's work is thus exhausting,then the balance of your life is wrong and must be adjusted. Aman's powers ought not to be monopolised by his ordinary day's work.What, then, is to be done?The obvious thing to do is to circumvent your ardour for yourordinary day's work by a ruse. Employ your engines in somethingbeyond the programme before, and not after, you employ them on theprogramme itself. Briefly, get up earlier in the morning.

You sayyou cannot. You say it is impossible for you to go earlier to bedof a night--to do so would upset the entire household. I do notthink it is quite impossible to go to bed earlier at night. I thinkthat if you persist in rising earlier, and the consequence isinsufficiency of sleep, you will soon find a way of going to bedearlier. But my impression is that the consequences of risingearlier will not be an insufficiency of sleep. My impression,growing stronger every year, is that sleep is partly a matter ofhabit--and of slackness. I am convinced that most people sleep aslong as they do because they are at a loss for any other diversion.How much sleep do you think is daily obtained by the powerfulhealthy man who daily rattles up your street in charge of CarterPatterson's van? I have consulted a doctor on this point.

He is adoctor who for twenty-four years has had a large general practice ina large flourishing suburb of London, inhabited by exactly suchpeople as you and me. He is a curt man, and his answer was curt:"Most people sleep themselves stupid."He went on to give his opinion that nine men out of ten would havebetter health and more fun out of life if they spent less time inbed.Other doctors have confirmed this judgment, which, of course, doesnot apply to growing youths.Rise an hour, an hour and a half, or even two hours earlier; and--ifyou must--retire earlier when you can. In the matter of exceedingprogrammes, you will accomplish as much in one morning hour asin two evening hours.

"But," you say, "I couldn't begin withoutsome food, and servants." Surely, my dear sir, in an age when anexcellent spirit-lamp (including a saucepan) can be bought for lessthan a shilling, you are not going to allow your highest welfare todepend upon the precarious immediate co-operation of a fellowcreature! Instruct the fellow creature, whoever she may be, atnight. Tell her to put a tray in a suitable position over night.On that tray two biscuits, a cup and saucer, a box of matches and aspirit-lamp; on the lamp, the saucepan; on the saucepan, the lid--but turned the wrong way up; on the reversed lid, the small teapot,containing a minute quantity of tea leaves. You will then have tostrike a match--that is all. In three minutes the water boils, andyou pour it into the teapot (which is already warm). In three moreminutes the tea is infused. You can begin your day while drinkingit. These details may seem trivial to the foolish, but to thethoughtful they will not seem trivial. The proper, wise balancingof one's whole life may depend upon the feasibility of a cup of teaat an unusual hour.

Chapter 12

XII - DANGERS TO AVOID

I cannot terminate these hints, often, I fear, too didactic andabrupt, upon the full use of one's time to the great end of living(as distinguished from vegetating) without briefly referring tocertain dangers which lie in wait for the sincere aspirant towardslife. The first is the terrible danger of becoming that most odiousand least supportable of persons--a prig. Now a prig is a pertfellow who gives himself airs of superior wisdom. A prig is apompous fool who has gone out for a ceremonial walk, and withoutknowing it has lost an important part of his attire, namely, hissense of humour. A prig is a tedious individual who, having made adiscovery, is so impressed by his discovery that he is capable ofbeing gravely displeased because the entire world is not alsoimpressed by it.

Unconsciously to become a prig is an easy and afatal thing.Hence, when one sets forth on the enterprise of using all one'stime, it is just as well to remember that one's own time, and notother people's time, is the material with which one has to deal;that the earth rolled on pretty comfortably before one began tobalance a budget of the hours, and that it will continue to roll onpretty comfortably whether or not one succeeds in one's new role ofchancellor of the exchequer of time. It is as well not to chattertoo much about what one is doing, and not to betray a too-painedsadness at the spectacle of a whole world deliberately wasting somany hours out of every day, and therefore never really living.

Itwill be found, ultimately, that in taking care of one's self one hasquite all one can do.Another danger is the danger of being tied to a programme like aslave to a chariot. One's programme must not be allowed to run awaywith one. It must be respected, but it must not be worshipped as afetish. A programme of daily employ is not a religion.This seems obvious. Yet I know men whose lives are a burden tothemselves and a distressing burden to their relatives and friendssimply because they have failed to appreciate the obvious. "Oh,no," I have heard the martyred wife exclaim, "Arthur always takesthe dog out for exercise at eight o'clock and he always begins toread at a quarter to nine. So it's quite out of the question thatwe should. . ." etc., etc. And the note of absolute finality inthat plaintive voice reveals the unsuspected and ridiculous tragedyof a career.

On the other hand, a programme is a programme. And unless it istreated with deference it ceases to be anything but a poor joke. Totreat one's programme with exactly the right amount of deference, tolive with not too much and not too little elasticity, is scarcelythe simple affair it may appear to the inexperienced.And still another danger is the danger of developing a policy ofrush, of being gradually more and more obsessed by what one has todo next. In this way one may come to exist as in a prison, and one'slife may cease to be one's own. One may take the dog out for a walkat eight o'clock, and meditate the whole time on the fact that onemust begin to read at a quarter to nine, and that one must not belate.And the occasional deliberate breaking of one's programme will nothelp to mend matters.

The evil springs not from persisting withoutelasticity in what one has attempted, but from originally attemptingtoo much, from filling one's programme till it runs over. The onlycure is to reconstitute the programme, and to attempt less.But the appetite for knowledge grows by what it feeds on, and thereare men who come to like a constant breathless hurry of endeavour.Of them it may be said that a constant breathless hurry is betterthan an eternal doze.In any case, if the programme exhibits a tendency to be oppressive,and yet one wishes not to modify it, an excellent palliative is topass with exaggerated deliberation from one portion of it toanother; for example, to spend five minutes in perfect mentalquiescence between chaining up the St. Bernard and opening the book;in other words, to waste five minutes with the entire consciousnessof wasting them.

The last, and chiefest danger which I would indicate, is one towhich I have already referred--the risk of a failure at thecommencement of the enterprise.I must insist on it.A failure at the commencement may easily kill outright the newbornimpulse towards a complete vitality, and therefore every precautionshould be observed to avoid it. The impulse must not be over-taxed.Let the pace of the first lap be even absurdly slow, but let it beas regular as possible.And, having once decided to achieve a certain task, achieve it atall costs of tedium and distaste. The gain in self-confidence ofhaving accomplished a tiresome labour is immense.Finally, in choosing the first occupations of those evening hours,be guided by nothing whatever but your taste and naturalinclination.It is a fine thing to be a walking encyclopaedia of philosophy, butif you happen to have no liking for philosophy, and to have a likefor the natural history of street-cries, much better leavephilosophy alone, and take to street-cries.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, HOW TO LIVE ON 24 HOURS A DAY ***

Chapter 11

XI - SERIOUS READING

Novels are excluded from "serious reading," so that the man who,bent on self-improvement, has been deciding to devote ninety minutesthree times a week to a complete study of the works of CharlesDickens will be well advised to alter his plans. The reason is notthat novels are not serious--some of the great literature of theworld is in the form of prose fiction--the reason is that badnovels ought not to be read, and that good novels never demand anyappreciable mental application on the part of the reader. It is onlythe bad parts of Meredith's novels that are difficult. A good novelrushes you forward like a skiff down a stream, and you arrive at theend, perhaps breathless, but unexhausted. The best novels involvethe least strain.

Now in the cultivation of the mind one of themost important factors is precisely the feeling of strain, ofdifficulty, of a task which one part of you is anxious to achieveand another part of you is anxious to shirk; and that feelingcannot be got in facing a novel. You do not set your teeth in orderto read "Anna Karenina." Therefore, though you should read novels,you should not read them in those ninety minutes.Imaginative poetry produces a far greater mental strain than novels.It produces probably the severest strain of any form of literature.It is the highest form of literature. It yields the highest form ofpleasure, and teaches the highest form of wisdom. In a word, thereis nothing to compare with it.

I say this with sad consciousness ofthe fact that the majority of people do not read poetry.I am persuaded that many excellent persons, if they were confrontedwith the alternatives of reading "Paradise Lost" and going roundTrafalgar Square at noonday on their knees in sack-cloth, wouldchoose the ordeal of public ridicule. Still, I will never ceaseadvising my friends and enemies to read poetry before anything.If poetry is what is called "a sealed book" to you, begin by readingHazlitt's famous essay on the nature of "poetry in general." It isthe best thing of its kind in English, and no one who has read itcan possibly be under the misapprehension that poetry is a mediaevaltorture, or a mad elephant, or a gun that will go off by itself andkill at forty paces. Indeed, it is difficult to imagine the mentalstate of the man who, after reading Hazlitt's essay, is not urgentlydesirous of reading some poetry before his next meal.

If the essayso inspires you I would suggest that you make a commencement withpurely narrative poetry.There is an infinitely finer English novel, written by a woman, thananything by George Eliot or the Brontes, or even Jane Austen, whichperhaps you have not read. Its title is "Aurora Leigh," and itsauthor E.B. Browning. It happens to be written in verse, and tocontain a considerable amount of genuinely fine poetry. Decide toread that book through, even if you die for it. Forget that it isfine poetry. Read it simply for the story and the social ideas. Andwhen you have done, ask yourself honestly whether you still dislikepoetry. I have known more than one person to whom "Aurora Leigh" hasbeen the means of proving that in assuming they hated poetry theywere entirely mistaken.

Of course, if, after Hazlitt, and such an experiment made in thelight of Hazlitt, you are finally assured that there is something inyou which is antagonistic to poetry, you must be content withhistory or philosophy. I shall regret it, yet not inconsolably."The Decline and Fall" is not to be named in the same day with"Paradise Lost," but it is a vastly pretty thing; and HerbertSpencer's "First Principles" simply laughs at the claims of poetryand refuses to be accepted as aught but the most majestic product ofany human mind. I do not suggest that either of these works issuitable for a tyro in mental strains. But I see no reason why anyman of average intelligence should not, after a year of continuousreading, be fit to assault the supreme masterpieces of history orphilosophy.

The great convenience of masterpieces is that they areso astonishingly lucid.I suggest no particular work as a start. The attempt would befutile in the space of my command. But I have two generalsuggestions of a certain importance. The first is to define thedirection and scope of your efforts. Choose a limited period, or alimited subject, or a single author. Say to yourself: "I will knowsomething about the French Revolution, or the rise of railways, orthe works of John Keats." And during a given period, to be settledbeforehand, confine yourself to your choice. There is much pleasureto be derived from being a specialist.The second suggestion is to think as well as to read. I know peoplewho read and read, and for all the good it does them they might justas well cut bread-and-butter.

They take to reading as better mentake to drink. They fly through the shires of literature on amotor-car, their sole object being motion. They will tell you howmany books they have read in a year.Unless you give at least forty-five minutes to careful, fatiguingreflection (it is an awful bore at first) upon what you are reading,your ninety minutes of a night are chiefly wasted. This means thatyour pace will be slow.Never mind.Forget the goal; think only of the surrounding country; and after aperiod, perhaps when you least expect it, you will suddenly findyourself in a lovely town on a hill.

Chapter 10

X - NOTHING IN LIFE IS HUMDRUM

Art is a great thing. But it is not the greatest. The mostimportant of all perceptions is the continual perception of causeand effect--in other words, the perception of the continuousdevelopment of the universe--in still other words, the perception ofthe course of evolution. When one has thoroughly got imbued intoone's head the leading truth that nothing happens without a cause,one grows not only large-minded, but large-hearted.It is hard to have one's watch stolen, but one reflects that thethief of the watch became a thief from causes of heredity andenvironment which are as interesting as they are scientificallycomprehensible; and one buys another watch, if not with joy, at anyrate with a philosophy that makes bitterness impossible. One loses,in the study of cause and effect, that absurd air which so manypeople have of being always shocked and pained by the curiousness oflife.

Such people live amid human nature as if human nature were aforeign country full of awful foreign customs. But, having reachedmaturity, one ought surely to be ashamed of being a stranger in astrange land!The study of cause and effect, while it lessens the painfulness oflife, adds to life's picturesqueness. The man to whom evolution isbut a name looks at the sea as a grandiose, monotonous spectacle,which he can witness in August for three shillings third-classreturn. The man who is imbued with the idea of development, ofcontinuous cause and effect, perceives in the sea an element whichin the day-before-yesterday of geology was vapour, which yesterdaywas boiling, and which to-morrow will inevitably be ice.

He perceives that a liquid is merely something on its way to besolid, and he is penetrated by a sense of the tremendous, changefulpicturesqueness of life. Nothing will afford a more durablesatisfaction than the constantly cultivated appreciation of this.It is the end of all science.Cause and effect are to be found everywhere. Rents went up inShepherd's Bush. It was painful and shocking that rents should goup in Shepherd's Bush. But to a certain point we are all scientificstudents of cause and effect, and there was not a clerk lunching ata Lyons Restaurant who did not scientifically put two and twotogether and see in the (once) Two-penny Tube the cause of anexcessive demand for wigwams in Shepherd's Bush, and in theexcessive demand for wigwams the cause of the increase in the priceof wigwams."Simple!" you say, disdainfully. Everything--the whole complexmovement of the universe--is as simple as that--when you cansufficiently put two and two together.

And, my dear sir, perhapsyou happen to be an estate agent's clerk, and you hate the arts, andyou want to foster your immortal soul, and you can't be interestedin your business because it's so humdrum.Nothing is humdrum.The tremendous, changeful picturesqueness of life is marvellouslyshown in an estate agent's office. What! There was a block oftraffic in Oxford Street; to avoid the block people actually beganto travel under the cellars and drains, and the result was a rise ofrents in Shepherd's Bush! And you say that isn't picturesque!Suppose you were to study, in this spirit, the property question inLondon for an hour and a half every other evening. Would it not givezest to your business, and transform your whole life?You would arrive at more difficult problems.

And you would be ableto tell us why, as the natural result of cause and effect, thelongest straight street in London is about a yard and a half inlength, while the longest absolutely straight street in Parisextends for miles. I think you will admit that in an estate agent'sclerk I have not chosen an example that specially favours mytheories.You are a bank clerk, and you have not read that breathless romance(disguised as a scientific study), Walter Bagehot's "LombardStreet"? Ah, my dear sir, if you had begun with that, and followedit up for ninety minutes every other evening, how enthralling yourbusiness would be to you, and how much more clearly you wouldunderstand human nature.

You are "penned in town," but you love excursions to the country andthe observation of wild life--certainly a heart-enlarging diversion.Why don't you walk out of your house door, in your slippers, to thenearest gas lamp of a night with a butterfly net, and observe thewild life of common and rare moths that is beating about it, andco-ordinate the knowledge thus obtained and build a superstructureon it, and at last get to know something about something?You need not be devoted to the arts, not to literature, in order tolive fully.The whole field of daily habit and scene is waiting to satisfy thatcuriosity which means life, and the satisfaction of which means anunderstanding heart.I promised to deal with your case, O man who hates art andliterature, and I have dealt with it. I now come to the case of theperson, happily very common, who does "like reading."

Chapter 9

IX - INTEREST IN THE ARTS

Many people pursue a regular and uninterrupted course of idleness inthe evenings because they think that there is no alternative toidleness but the study of literature; and they do not happen to havea taste for literature. This is a great mistake.Of course it is impossible, or at any rate very difficult, properlyto study anything whatever without the aid of printed books. But ifyou desire to understand the deeper depths of bridge or of boat-sailing you would not be deterred by your lack of interest inliterature from reading the best books on bridge or boat-sailing.We must, therefore, distinguish between literature, and bookstreating of subjects not literary.

I shall come to literature indue course.Let me now remark to those who have never read Meredith, and who arecapable of being unmoved by a discussion as to whether Mr. StephenPhillips is or is not a true poet, that they are perfectly withintheir rights. It is not a crime not to love literature. It is not asign of imbecility. The mandarins of literature will order out toinstant execution the unfortunate individual who does notcomprehend, say, the influence of Wordsworth on Tennyson. But thatis only their impudence. Where would they be, I wonder, ifrequested to explain the influences that went to make Tschaikowsky's"Pathetic Symphony"?There are enormous fields of knowledge quite outside literaturewhich will yield magnificent results to cultivators. For example(since I have just mentioned the most popular piece of high-classmusic in England to-day), I am reminded that the Promenade Concertsbegin in August. You go to them.

You smoke your cigar or cigarette(and I regret to say that you strike your matches during the softbars of the "Lohengrin" overture), and you enjoy the music. But yousay you cannot play the piano or the fiddle, or even the banjo; thatyou know nothing of music.What does that matter? That you have a genuine taste for music isproved by the fact that, in order to fill his hall with you and yourpeers, the conductor is obliged to provide programmes from which badmusic is almost entirely excluded (a change from the old CoventGarden days!).Now surely your inability to perform "The Maiden's Prayer" on apiano need not prevent you from making yourself familiar with theconstruction of the orchestra to which you listen a couple of nightsa week during a couple of months!

As things are, you probably thinkof the orchestra as a heterogeneous mass of instruments producing aconfused agreeable mass of sound. You do not listen for detailsbecause you have never trained your ears to listen to details.If you were asked to name the instruments which play the great themeat the beginning of the C minor symphony you could not name them foryour life's sake. Yet you admire the C minor symphony. It hasthrilled you. It will thrill you again. You have even talked aboutit, in an expansive mood, to that lady--you know whom I mean. Andall you can positively state about the C minor symphony is thatBeethoven composed it and that it is a "jolly fine thing."Now, if you have read, say, Mr. Krehbiel's "How to Listen to Music"(which can be got at any bookseller's for less than the price of astall at the Alhambra, and which contains photographs of all theorchestral instruments and plans of the arrangement of orchestras)you would next go to a promenade concert with an astonishingintensification of interest in it.

Instead of a confused mass, theorchestra would appear to you as what it is--a marvellously balancedorganism whose various groups of members each have a different andan indispensable function. You would spy out the instruments, andlisten for their respective sounds. You would know the gulf thatseparates a French horn from an English horn, and you would perceivewhy a player of the hautboy gets higher wages than a fiddler, thoughthe fiddle is the more difficult instrument. You would *live* at apromenade concert, whereas previously you had merely existed therein a state of beatific coma, like a baby gazing at a bright object.The foundations of a genuine, systematic knowledge of music might belaid.

You might specialise your inquiries either on a particularform of music (such as the symphony), or on the works of aparticular composer. At the end of a year of forty-eight weeks ofthree brief evenings each, combined with a study of programmes andattendances at concerts chosen out of your increasing knowledge, youwould really know something about music, even though you were as faroff as ever from jangling "The Maiden's Prayer" on the piano."But I hate music!" you say. My dear sir, I respect you.What applies to music applies to the other arts. I might mentionMr. Clermont Witt's "How to Look at Pictures," or Mr. RussellSturgis's "How to Judge Architecture," as beginnings (merelybeginnings) of systematic vitalising knowledge in other arts, thematerials for whose study abound in London."I hate all the arts!" you say. My dear sir, I respect you more andmore.I will deal with your case next, before coming to literature.

Chapter 8

VIII - THE REFLECTIVE MOOD

The exercise of concentrating the mind (to which at least half anhour a day should be given) is a mere preliminary, like scales onthe piano. Having acquired power over that most unruly member ofone's complex organism, one has naturally to put it to the yoke.Useless to possess an obedient mind unless one profits to thefurthest possible degree by its obedience. A prolonged primarycourse of study is indicated.Now as to what this course of study should be there cannot be anyquestion; there never has been any question. All the sensiblepeople of all ages are agreed upon it. And it is not literature,nor is it any other art, nor is it history, nor is it any science.It is the study of one's self.

Man, know thyself. These words areso hackneyed that verily I blush to write them. Yet they must bewritten, for they need to be written. (I take back my blush, beingashamed of it.) Man, know thyself. I say it out loud. The phraseis one of those phrases with which everyone is familiar, of whicheveryone acknowledges the value, and which only the most sagaciousput into practice. I don't know why. I am entirely convinced thatwhat is more than anything else lacking in the life of the averagewell-intentioned man of to-day is the reflective mood.We do not reflect. I mean that we do not reflect upon genuinelyimportant things; upon the problem of our happiness, upon the maindirection in which we are going, upon what life is giving to us,upon the share which reason has (or has not) in determining ouractions, and upon the relation between our principles and ourconduct.And yet you are in search of happiness, are you not? Have youdiscovered it?The chances are that you have not.

The chances are that you havealready come to believe that happiness is unattainable. But menhave attained it. And they have attained it by realising thathappiness does not spring from the procuring of physical or mentalpleasure, but from the development of reason and the adjustment ofconduct to principles.I suppose that you will not have the audacity to deny this. And ifyou admit it, and still devote no part of your day to the deliberateconsideration of your reason, principles, and conduct, you admitalso that while striving for a certain thing you are regularlyleaving undone the one act which is necessary to the attainment ofthat thing.Now, shall I blush, or will you?Do not fear that I mean to thrust certain principles upon yourattention. I care not (in this place) what your principles are.Your principles may induce you to believe in the righteousness ofburglary. I don't mind.

All I urge is that a life in which conductdoes not fairly well accord with principles is a silly life; andthat conduct can only be made to accord with principles by means ofdaily examination, reflection, and resolution. What leads to thepermanent sorrowfulness of burglars is that their principles arecontrary to burglary. If they genuinely believed in the moralexcellence of burglary, penal servitude would simply mean so manyhappy years for them; all martyrs are happy, because their conductand their principles agree.As for reason (which makes conduct, and is not unconnected with themaking of principles), it plays a far smaller part in our lives thanwe fancy. We are supposed to be reasonable but we are much moreinstinctive than reasonable. And the less we reflect, the lessreasonable we shall be.

The next time you get cross with the waiterbecause your steak is over-cooked, ask reason to step into thecabinet-room of your mind, and consult her. She will probably tellyou that the waiter did not cook the steak, and had no control overthe cooking of the steak; and that even if he alone was to blame,you accomplished nothing good by getting cross; you merely lost yourdignity, looked a fool in the eyes of sensible men, and soured thewaiter, while producing no effect whatever on the steak.The result of this consultation with reason (for which she makes nocharge) will be that when once more your steak is over-cooked youwill treat the waiter as a fellow-creature, remain quite calm in akindly spirit, and politely insist on having a fresh steak.

Thegain will be obvious and solid.In the formation or modification of principles, and the practice ofconduct, much help can be derived from printed books (issued atsixpence each and upwards). I mentioned in my last chapter MarcusAurelius and Epictetus. Certain even more widely known works willoccur at once to the memory. I may also mention Pascal, La Bruyere,and Emerson. For myself, you do not catch me travelling without myMarcus Aurelius.

Yes, books are valuable. But not reading of bookswill take the place of a daily, candid, honest examination of whatone has recently done, and what one is about to do--of a steadylooking at one's self in the face (disconcerting though the sightmay be).When shall this important business be accomplished? The solitude ofthe evening journey home appears to me to be suitable for it. Areflective mood naturally follows the exertion of having earned theday's living. Of course if, instead of attending to an elementaryand profoundly important duty, you prefer to read the paper (whichyou might just as well read while waiting for your dinner) I havenothing to say. But attend to it at some time of the day you must.I now come to the evening hours.

Wise time using article..

This is a how-to book, I found quite interesting to read and follow. It's from Gutenburg Project, which the chapter I posted here is Ch.7. The writer had previously mentioned the importance of 24 hour in a day we all had and the saved time of almost 2 hours we can have everyday. Consequently, in this chapter, he told how to apply a half hour in the morning and an hour and a half into a wise use here. :)

Chapter 7

VIICONTROLLING THE MINDPeople say: "One can't help one's thoughts." But one can. Thecontrol of the thinking machine is perfectly possible. And sincenothing whatever happens to us outside our own brain; since nothinghurts us or gives us pleasure except within the brain, the supremeimportance of being able to control what goes on in that mysteriousbrain is patent. This idea is one of the oldest platitudes, but itis a platitude whose profound truth and urgency most people live anddie without realising. People complain of the lack of power toconcentrate, not witting that they may acquire the power, if theychoose.And without the power to concentrate--that is to say, without thepower to dictate to the brain its task and to ensure obedience--truelife is impossible.

Mind control is the first element of a fullexistence.Hence, it seems to me, the first business of the day should be toput the mind through its paces. You look after your body, insideand out; you run grave danger in hacking hairs off your skin; youemploy a whole army of individuals, from the milkman to the pig-killer, to enable you to bribe your stomach into decent behaviour.Why not devote a little attention to the far more delicate machineryof the mind, especially as you will require no extraneous aid? Itis for this portion of the art and craft of living that I havereserved the time from the moment of quitting your door to themoment of arriving at your office."What? I am to cultivate my mind in the street, on the platform, inthe train, and in the crowded street again?" Precisely. Nothingsimpler! No tools required! Not even a book. Nevertheless, theaffair is not easy.When you leave your house, concentrate your mind on a subject (nomatter what, to begin with). You will not have gone ten yardsbefore your mind has skipped away under your very eyes and islarking round the corner with another subject.Bring it back by the scruff of the neck.

Ere you have reached thestation you will have brought it back about forty times. Do notdespair. Continue. Keep it up. You will succeed. You cannot byany chance fail if you persevere. It is idle to pretend that yourmind is incapable of concentration. Do you not remember that morningwhen you received a disquieting letter which demanded a verycarefully-worded answer? How you kept your mind steadily on thesubject of the answer, without a second's intermission, until youreached your office; whereupon you instantly sat down and wrote theanswer? That was a case in which *you* were roused by circumstancesto such a degree of vitality that you were able to dominate yourmind like a tyrant. You would have no trifling. You insisted thatits work should be done, and its work was done.By the regular practice of concentration (as to which there is nosecret--save the secret of perseverance) you can tyrannise overyour mind (which is not the highest part of *you*) every hour of theday, and in no matter what place.

The exercise is a very convenientone. If you got into your morning train with a pair of dumb-bellsfor your muscles or an encyclopaedia in ten volumes for yourlearning, you would probably excite remark. But as you walk in thestreet, or sit in the corner of the compartment behind a pipe, or"strap-hang" on the Subterranean, who is to know that you areengaged in the most important of daily acts? What asinine boor canlaugh at you?I do not care what you concentrate on, so long as you concentrate.It is the mere disciplining of the thinking machine that counts.But still, you may as well kill two birds with one stone, andconcentrate on something useful. I suggest--it is only asuggestion--a little chapter of Marcus Aurelius or Epictetus.Do not, I beg, shy at their names. For myself, I know nothing more"actual," more bursting with plain common-sense, applicable to thedaily life of plain persons like you and me (who hate airs, pose,and nonsense) than Marcus Aurelius or Epictetus. Read a chapter--and so short they are, the chapters!--in the evening andconcentrate on it the next morning.

You will see.Yes, my friend, it is useless for you to try to disguise the fact.I can hear your brain like a telephone at my ear. You are saying toyourself: "This fellow was doing pretty well up to his seventhchapter. He had begun to interest me faintly. But what he saysabout thinking in trains, and concentration, and so on, is not forme. It may be well enough for some folks, but it isn't in my line."It is for you, I passionately repeat; it is for you. Indeed, youare the very man I am aiming at.Throw away the suggestion, and you throw away the most precioussuggestion that was ever offered to you. It is not my suggestion.It is the suggestion of the most sensible, practical, hard-headedmen who have walked the earth. I only give it you at second-hand.Try it. Get your mind in hand. And see how the process cures halfthe evils of life--especially worry, that miserable, avoidable,shameful disease--worry!