How to Live on 24 Hours a Day

by Brett & Kate McKay on January 2, 2014 · 73 comments

in A Man's Life


Editor’s note: As you look back on the year that has just past, do you feel as though you spent another 12 months merely existing instead of truly living? Do you often go to bed at night with an anxious, sinking feeling that you wasted away another precious day of your limited time here on earth? One of my all-time favorite old books addressed this very concern better than anything else I’ve ever read. Published in 1910 and written by Arnold Bennett, How to Live on Twenty-Fours Hours a Day describes and diagnoses the root of the problem and offers a program for overcoming it. Bennett has some very particular opinions about what should constitute this program, but you need not follow them to a T; the important part is committing to carve out some time each day to do things that will really enrich your life and help you progress as a man.

This little book takes about 30 minutes to read, and is so incisive and clever that it moves along very quickly and enjoyably. It is truly just as relevant today as it was a century ago. As Bennett says, time is the most precious resource you have, and investing a half hour in reading this will prove incredibly worthwhile.

How to Live on Twenty-Four Hours a Day

By Arnold Bennett



“Yes, he’s one of those men that don’t know how to manage. Good situation. Regular income. Quite enough for luxuries as well as needs. Not really extravagant. And yet the fellow’s always in difficulties. Somehow he gets nothing out of his money. Excellent flat—half empty! Always looks as if he’d had the brokers in. New suit—old hat! Magnificent necktie—baggy trousers! Asks you to dinner: cut glass—bad mutton, or Turkish coffee—cracked cup! He can’t understand it. Explanation simply is that he fritters his income away. Wish I had the half of it! I’d show him—”

So we have most of us criticised, at one time or another, in our superior way.

We are nearly all chancellors of the exchequer: it is the pride of the moment. Newspapers are full of articles explaining how to live on such-and-such a sum, and these articles provoke a correspondence whose violence proves the interest they excite. Recently, in a daily organ, a battle raged round the question whether a woman can exist nicely in the country on L85 a year. I have seen an essay, “How to live on eight shillings a week.” But I have never seen an essay, “How to live on twenty-four hours a day.” Yet it has been said that time is money. That proverb understates the case. Time is a great deal more than money. If you have time you can obtain money—usually. But though you have the wealth of a cloak-room attendant at the Carlton Hotel, you cannot buy yourself a minute more time than I have, or the cat by the fire has.

Philosophers have explained space. They have not explained time. It is the inexplicable raw material of everything. With it, all is possible; without it, nothing. The supply of time is truly a daily miracle, an affair genuinely astonishing when one examines it. You wake up in the morning, and lo! your purse is magically filled with twenty-four hours of the unmanufactured tissue of the universe of your life! It is yours. It is the most precious of possessions. A highly singular commodity, showered upon you in a manner as singular as the commodity itself!

For remark! No one can take it from you. It is unstealable. And no one receives either more or less than you receive.

Talk about an ideal democracy! In the realm of time there is no aristocracy of wealth, and no aristocracy of intellect. Genius is never rewarded by even an extra hour a day. And there is no punishment. Waste your infinitely precious commodity as much as you will, and the supply will never be withheld from you. No mysterious power will say:—”This man is a fool, if not a knave. He does not deserve time; he shall be cut off at the meter.” It is more certain than consols, and payment of income is not affected by Sundays. Moreover, you cannot draw on the future. Impossible to get into debt! You can only waste the passing moment. You cannot waste to-morrow; it is kept for you. You cannot waste the next hour; it is kept for you.

I said the affair was a miracle. Is it not?

You have to live on this twenty-four hours of daily time. Out of it you have to spin health, pleasure, money, content, respect, and the evolution of your immortal soul. Its right use, its most effective use, is a matter of the highest urgency and of the most thrilling actuality. All depends on that. Your happiness—the elusive prize that you are all clutching for, my friends!—depends on that. Strange that the newspapers, so enterprising and up-to-date as they are, are not full of “How to live on a given income of time,” instead of “How to live on a given income of money”! Money is far commoner than time. When one reflects, one perceives that money is just about the commonest thing there is. It encumbers the earth in gross heaps.

If one can’t contrive to live on a certain income of money, one earns a little more—or steals it, or advertises for it. One doesn’t necessarily muddle one’s life because one can’t quite manage on a thousand pounds a year; one braces the muscles and makes it guineas, and balances the budget. But if one cannot arrange that an income of twenty-four hours a day shall exactly cover all proper items of expenditure, one does muddle one’s life definitely. The supply of time, though gloriously regular, is cruelly restricted.

Which of us lives on twenty-four hours a day? And when I say “lives,” I do not mean exists, nor “muddles through.” Which of us is free from that uneasy feeling that the “great spending departments” of his daily life are not managed as they ought to be? Which of us is quite sure that his fine suit is not surmounted by a shameful hat, or that in attending to the crockery he has forgotten the quality of the food? Which of us is not saying to himself—which of us has not been saying to himself all his life: “I shall alter that when I have a little more time”?

We never shall have any more time. We have, and we have always had, all the time there is. It is the realisation of this profound and neglected truth (which, by the way, I have not discovered) that has led me to the minute practical examination of daily time-expenditure.


“But,” someone may remark, with the English disregard of everything except the point, “what is he driving at with his twenty-four hours a day? I have no difficulty in living on twenty-four hours a day. I do all that I want to do, and still find time to go in for newspaper competitions. Surely it is a simple affair, knowing that one has only twenty-four hours a day, to content one’s self with twenty-four hours a day!”

To you, my dear sir, I present my excuses and apologies. You are precisely the man that I have been wishing to meet for about forty years. Will you kindly send me your name and address, and state your charge for telling me how you do it? Instead of me talking to you, you ought to be talking to me. Please come forward. That you exist, I am convinced, and that I have not yet encountered you is my loss. Meanwhile, until you appear, I will continue to chat with my companions in distress—that innumerable band of souls who are haunted, more or less painfully, by the feeling that the years slip by, and slip by, and slip by, and that they have not yet been able to get their lives into proper working order.

If we analyse that feeling, we shall perceive it to be, primarily, one of uneasiness, of expectation, of looking forward, of aspiration. It is a source of constant discomfort, for it behaves like a skeleton at the feast of all our enjoyments. We go to the theatre and laugh; but between the acts it raises a skinny finger at us. We rush violently for the last train, and while we are cooling a long age on the platform waiting for the last train, it promenades its bones up and down by our side and inquires: “O man, what hast thou done with thy youth? What art thou doing with thine age?” You may urge that this feeling of continuous looking forward, of aspiration, is part of life itself, and inseparable from life itself. True!

But there are degrees. A man may desire to go to Mecca. His conscience tells him that he ought to go to Mecca. He fares forth, either by the aid of Cook’s, or unassisted; he may probably never reach Mecca; he may drown before he gets to Port Said; he may perish ingloriously on the coast of the Red Sea; his desire may remain eternally frustrate. Unfulfilled aspiration may always trouble him. But he will not be tormented in the same way as the man who, desiring to reach Mecca, and harried by the desire to reach Mecca, never leaves Brixton.

It is something to have left Brixton. Most of us have not left Brixton. We have not even taken a cab to Ludgate Circus and inquired from Cook’s the price of a conducted tour. And our excuse to ourselves is that there are only twenty-four hours in the day.

If we further analyse our vague, uneasy aspiration, we shall, I think, see that it springs from a fixed idea that we ought to do something in addition to those things which we are loyally and morally obliged to do. We are obliged, by various codes written and unwritten, to maintain ourselves and our families (if any) in health and comfort, to pay our debts, to save, to increase our prosperity by increasing our efficiency. A task sufficiently difficult! A task which very few of us achieve! A task often beyond our skill! Yet, if we succeed in it, as we sometimes do, we are not satisfied; the skeleton is still with us.

And even when we realise that the task is beyond our skill, that our powers cannot cope with it, we feel that we should be less discontented if we gave to our powers, already overtaxed, something still further to do.

And such is, indeed, the fact. The wish to accomplish something outside their formal programme is common to all men who in the course of evolution have risen past a certain level.

Until an effort is made to satisfy that wish, the sense of uneasy waiting for something to start which has not started will remain to disturb the peace of the soul. That wish has been called by many names. It is one form of the universal desire for knowledge. And it is so strong that men whose whole lives have been given to the systematic acquirement of knowledge have been driven by it to overstep the limits of their programme in search of still more knowledge. Even Herbert Spencer, in my opinion the greatest mind that ever lived, was often forced by it into agreeable little backwaters of inquiry.

I imagine that in the majority of people who are conscious of the wish to live—that is to say, people who have intellectual curiosity—the aspiration to exceed formal programmes takes a literary shape. They would like to embark on a course of reading. Decidedly the British people are becoming more and more literary. But I would point out that literature by no means comprises the whole field of knowledge, and that the disturbing thirst to improve one’s self—to increase one’s knowledge—may well be slaked quite apart from literature. With the various ways of slaking I shall deal later. Here I merely point out to those who have no natural sympathy with literature that literature is not the only well.


Now that I have succeeded (if succeeded I have) in persuading you to admit to yourself that you are constantly haunted by a suppressed dissatisfaction with your own arrangement of your daily life; and that the primal cause of that inconvenient dissatisfaction is the feeling that you are every day leaving undone something which you would like to do, and which, indeed, you are always hoping to do when you have “more time”; and now that I have drawn your attention to the glaring, dazzling truth that you never will have “more time,” since you already have all the time there is—you expect me to let you into some wonderful secret by which you may at any rate approach the ideal of a perfect arrangement of the day, and by which, therefore, that haunting, unpleasant, daily disappointment of things left undone will be got rid of!

I have found no such wonderful secret. Nor do I expect to find it, nor do I expect that anyone else will ever find it. It is undiscovered. When you first began to gather my drift, perhaps there was a resurrection of hope in your breast. Perhaps you said to yourself, “This man will show me an easy, unfatiguing way of doing what I have so long in vain wished to do.” Alas, no! The fact is that there is no easy way, no royal road. The path to Mecca is extremely hard and stony, and the worst of it is that you never quite get there after all.

The most important preliminary to the task of arranging one’s life so that one may live fully and comfortably within one’s daily budget of twenty-four hours is the calm realisation of the extreme difficulty of the task, of the sacrifices and the endless effort which it demands. I cannot too strongly insist on this.

If you imagine that you will be able to achieve your ideal by ingeniously planning out a time-table with a pen on a piece of paper, you had better give up hope at once. If you are not prepared for discouragements and disillusions; if you will not be content with a small result for a big effort, then do not begin. Lie down again and resume the uneasy doze which you call your existence.

It is very sad, is it not, very depressing and sombre? And yet I think it is rather fine, too, this necessity for the tense bracing of the will before anything worth doing can be done. I rather like it myself. I feel it to be the chief thing that differentiates me from the cat by the fire.

“Well,” you say, “assume that I am braced for the battle. Assume that I have carefully weighed and comprehended your ponderous remarks; how do I begin?” Dear sir, you simply begin. There is no magic method of beginning. If a man standing on the edge of a swimming-bath and wanting to jump into the cold water should ask you, “How do I begin to jump?” you would merely reply, “Just jump. Take hold of your nerves, and jump.”

As I have previously said, the chief beauty about the constant supply of time is that you cannot waste it in advance. The next year, the next day, the next hour are lying ready for you, as perfect, as unspoilt, as if you had never wasted or misapplied a single moment in all your career. Which fact is very gratifying and reassuring. You can turn over a new leaf every hour if you choose. Therefore no object is served in waiting till next week, or even until to-morrow. You may fancy that the water will be warmer next week. It won’t. It will be colder.

But before you begin, let me murmur a few words of warning in your private ear.

Let me principally warn you against your own ardour. Ardour in well-doing is a misleading and a treacherous thing. It cries out loudly for employment; you can’t satisfy it at first; it wants more and more; it is eager to move mountains and divert the course of rivers. It isn’t content till it perspires. And then, too often, when it feels the perspiration on its brow, it wearies all of a sudden and dies, without even putting itself to the trouble of saying, “I’ve had enough of this.”

Beware of undertaking too much at the start. Be content with quite a little. Allow for accidents. Allow for human nature, especially your own.

A failure or so, in itself, would not matter, if it did not incur a loss of self-esteem and of self-confidence. But just as nothing succeeds like success, so nothing fails like failure. Most people who are ruined are ruined by attempting too much. Therefore, in setting out on the immense enterprise of living fully and comfortably within the narrow limits of twenty-four hours a day, let us avoid at any cost the risk of an early failure. I will not agree that, in this business at any rate, a glorious failure is better than a petty success. I am all for the petty success. A glorious failure leads to nothing; a petty success may lead to a success that is not petty.

So let us begin to examine the budget of the day’s time. You say your day is already full to overflowing. How? You actually spend in earning your livelihood—how much? Seven hours, on the average? And in actual sleep, seven? I will add two hours, and be generous. And I will defy you to account to me on the spur of the moment for the other eight hours.


In order to come to grips at once with the question of time-expenditure in all its actuality, I must choose an individual case for examination. I can only deal with one case, and that case cannot be the average case, because there is no such case as the average case, just as there is no such man as the average man. Every man and every man’s case is special.

But if I take the case of a Londoner who works in an office, whose office hours are from ten to six, and who spends fifty minutes morning and night in travelling between his house door and his office door, I shall have got as near to the average as facts permit. There are men who have to work longer for a living, but there are others who do not have to work so long.

Fortunately the financial side of existence does not interest us here; for our present purpose the clerk at a pound a week is exactly as well off as the millionaire in Carlton House-terrace.

Now the great and profound mistake which my typical man makes in regard to his day is a mistake of general attitude, a mistake which vitiates and weakens two-thirds of his energies and interests. In the majority of instances he does not precisely feel a passion for his business; at best he does not dislike it. He begins his business functions with 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 at their full “h.p.” (I know that I shall be accused by angry readers of traducing the city worker; but I am pretty thoroughly acquainted with the City, and I stick to what I say.)

Yet in spite of all this he persists in looking upon those hours from ten to six as “the day,” to which the ten hours preceding them and the six hours following them are nothing but a prologue and epilogue. Such an attitude, unconscious though it be, of course kills his interest in the odd sixteen hours, with the result that, even if he does not waste them, he does not count them; he regards them simply as margin.

This general attitude is utterly illogical and unhealthy, since it formally gives the central prominence to a patch of time and a bunch of activities which the man’s one idea is to “get through” and have “done with.” If a man makes two-thirds of his existence subservient to one-third, for which admittedly he has no absolutely feverish zest, how can he hope to live fully and completely? He cannot.

If my typical man wishes to live fully and completely he must, in his mind, arrange a day within a day. And this inner day, a Chinese box in a larger Chinese box, must begin at 6 p.m. and end at 10 a.m. It is a day of sixteen hours; and during all these sixteen hours he has nothing whatever to do but cultivate his body and his soul and his fellow men. During those sixteen hours he is free; he is not a wage-earner; he is not preoccupied with monetary cares; he is just as good as a man with a private income. This must be his attitude. And his attitude is all important. His success in life (much more important than the amount of estate upon what his executors will have to pay estate duty) depends on it.

What? You say that full energy given to those sixteen hours will lessen the value of the business eight? Not so. On the contrary, it will assuredly increase the value of the business eight. One of the chief things which my typical man has to learn is that the mental faculties are capable of a continuous hard activity; they do not tire like an arm or a leg. All they want is change—not rest, except in sleep.

I shall now examine the typical man’s current method of employing the sixteen hours that are entirely his, beginning with his uprising. I will merely indicate things which he does and which I think he ought not to do, postponing my suggestions for “planting” the times which I shall have cleared—as a settler clears spaces in a forest.

In justice to him I must say that he wastes very little time before he leaves the house in the morning at 9:10. In too many houses he gets up at nine, breakfasts between 9:07 and 9:09.5, and then bolts. But immediately he bangs the front door his mental faculties, which are tireless, become idle. He walks to the station in a condition of mental coma. Arrived there, he usually has to wait for the train. On hundreds of suburban stations every morning you see men calmly strolling up and down platforms while railway companies unblushingly rob them of time, which is more than money. Hundreds of thousands of hours are thus lost every day simply because my typical man thinks so little of time that it has never occurred to him to take quite easy precautions against the risk of its loss.

He has a solid coin of time to spend every day—call it a sovereign. He must get change for it, and in getting change he is content to lose heavily.

Supposing that in selling him a ticket the company said, “We will change you a sovereign, but we shall charge you three halfpence for doing so,” what would my typical man exclaim? Yet that is the equivalent of what the company does when it robs him of five minutes twice a day.

You say I am dealing with minutiae. I am. And later on I will justify myself.

Now will you kindly buy your paper and step into the train?


You get into the morning train with your newspaper, and you calmly and majestically give yourself up to your newspaper. You do not hurry. You know you have at least half an hour of security in front of you. As your glance lingers idly at the advertisements of shipping and of songs on the outer pages, your air is the air of a leisured man, wealthy in time, of a man from some planet where there are a hundred and twenty-four hours a day instead of twenty-four. I am an impassioned reader of newspapers. I read five English and two French dailies, and the news-agents alone know how many weeklies, regularly. I am obliged to mention this personal fact lest I should be accused of a prejudice against newspapers when I say that I object to the reading of newspapers in the morning train. Newspapers are produced with rapidity, to be read with rapidity. There is no place in my daily programme for newspapers. I read them as I may in odd moments. But I do read them. The idea of devoting to them thirty or forty consecutive minutes of wonderful solitude (for nowhere can one more perfectly immerse one’s self in one’s self than in a compartment full of silent, withdrawn, smoking males) is to me repugnant. I cannot possibly allow you to scatter priceless pearls of time with such Oriental lavishness. You are not the Shah of time. Let me respectfully remind you that you have no more time than I have. No newspaper reading in trains! I have already “put by” about three-quarters of an hour for use.

Now you reach your office. And I abandon you there till six o’clock. I am aware that you have nominally an hour (often in reality an hour and a half) in the midst of the day, less than half of which time is given to eating. But I will leave you all that to spend as you choose. You may read your newspapers then.

I meet you again as you emerge from your office. You are pale and tired. At any rate, your wife says you are pale, and you give her to understand that you are tired. During the journey home you have been gradually working up the tired feeling. The tired feeling hangs heavy over the mighty suburbs of London like a virtuous and melancholy cloud, particularly in winter. You don’t eat immediately on your arrival home. But in about an hour or so you feel as if you could sit up and take a little nourishment. And you do. Then you smoke, seriously; you see friends; you potter; you play cards; you flirt with a book; you note that old age is creeping on; you take a stroll; you caress the piano…. By Jove! a quarter past eleven. You then devote quite forty minutes to thinking about going to bed; and it is conceivable that you are acquainted with a genuinely good whisky. At last you go to bed, exhausted by the day’s work. Six hours, probably more, have gone since you left the office—gone like a dream, gone like magic, unaccountably gone!

That is a fair sample case. But you say: “It’s all very well for you to talk. A man is tired. A man must see his friends. He can’t always be on the stretch.” Just so. But when you arrange to go to the theatre (especially with a pretty woman) what happens? You rush to the suburbs; you spare no toil to make yourself glorious in fine raiment; you rush back to town in another train; you keep yourself on the stretch for four hours, if not five; you take her home; you take yourself home. You don’t spend three-quarters of an hour in “thinking about” going to bed. You go. Friends and fatigue have equally been forgotten, and the evening has seemed so exquisitely long (or perhaps too short)! And do you remember that time when you were persuaded to sing in the chorus of the amateur operatic society, and slaved two hours every other night for three months? Can you deny that when you have something definite to look forward to at eventide, something that is to employ all your energy—the thought of that something gives a glow and a more intense vitality to the whole day?

What I suggest is that at six o’clock you look facts in the face and admit that you are not tired (because you are not, you know), and that you arrange your evening so that it is not cut in the middle by a meal. By so doing you will have a clear expanse of at least three hours. I do not suggest that you should employ three hours every night of your life in using up your mental energy. But I do suggest that you might, for a commencement, employ an hour and a half every other evening in some important and consecutive cultivation of the mind. You will still be left with three evenings for friends, bridge, tennis, domestic scenes, odd reading, pipes, gardening, pottering, and prize competitions. You will still have the terrific wealth of forty-five hours between 2 p.m. Saturday and 10 a.m. Monday. If you persevere you will soon want to pass four evenings, and perhaps five, in some sustained endeavour to be genuinely alive. And you will fall out of that habit of muttering to yourself at 11.15 p.m., “Time to be thinking about going to bed.” The man who begins to go to bed forty minutes before he opens his bedroom door is bored; that is to say, he is not living.

But remember, at the start, those ninety nocturnal minutes thrice a week must be the most important minutes in the ten thousand and eighty. They must be sacred, quite as sacred as a dramatic rehearsal or a tennis match. Instead of saying, “Sorry I can’t see you, old chap, but I have to run off to the tennis club,” you must say, “…but I have to work.” This, I admit, is intensely difficult to say. Tennis is so much more urgent than the immortal soul.


I have incidentally mentioned the vast expanse of forty-four hours between leaving business at 2 p.m. on Saturday and returning to business at 10 a.m. on Monday. And here I must touch on the point whether the week should consist of six days or of seven. For many years—in fact, until I was approaching forty—my own week consisted of seven days. I was constantly being informed by older and wiser people that more work, more genuine living, could be got out of six days than out of seven.

And it is certainly true that now, with one day in seven in which I follow no programme and make no effort save what the caprice of the moment dictates, I appreciate intensely the moral value of a weekly rest. Nevertheless, had I my life to arrange over again, I would do again as I have done. Only those who have lived at the full stretch seven days a week for a long time can appreciate the full beauty of a regular recurring idleness. Moreover, I am ageing. And it is a question of age. In cases of abounding youth and exceptional energy and desire for effort I should say unhesitatingly: Keep going, day in, day out.

But in the average case I should say: Confine your formal programme (super-programme, I mean) to six days a week. If you find yourself wishing to extend it, extend it, but only in proportion to your wish; and count the time extra as a windfall, not as regular income, so that you can return to a six-day programme without the sensation of being poorer, of being a backslider.

Let us now see where we stand. So far we have marked for saving out of the waste of days, half an hour at least on six mornings a week, and one hour and a half on three evenings a week. Total, seven hours and a half a week.

I propose to be content with that seven hours and a half for the present. “What?” you cry. “You pretend to show us how to live, and you only deal with seven hours and a half out of a hundred and sixty-eight! Are you going to perform a miracle with your seven hours and a half?” Well, not to mince the matter, I am—if you will kindly let me! That is to say, I am going to ask you to attempt an experience which, while perfectly natural and explicable, has all the air of a miracle. My contention is that the full use of those seven-and-a-half hours will quicken the whole life of the week, add zest to it, and increase the interest which you feel in even the most banal occupations. You practise physical exercises for a mere ten minutes morning and evening, and yet you are not astonished when your physical health and strength are beneficially affected every hour of the day, and your whole physical outlook changed. Why should you be astonished that an average of over an hour a day given to the mind should permanently and completely enliven the whole activity of the mind?

More time might assuredly be given to the cultivation of one’s self. And in proportion as the time was longer the results would be greater. But I prefer to begin with what looks like a trifling effort.

It is not really a trifling effort, as those will discover who have yet to essay it. To “clear” even seven hours and a half from the jungle is passably difficult. For some sacrifice has to be made. One may have spent one’s time badly, but one did spend it; one did do something with it, however ill-advised that something may have been. To do something else means a change of habits.

And habits are the very dickens to change! Further, any change, even a change for the better, is always accompanied by drawbacks and discomforts. If you imagine that you will be able to devote seven hours and a half a week to serious, continuous effort, and still live your old life, you are mistaken. I repeat that some sacrifice, and an immense deal of volition, will be necessary. And it is because I know the difficulty, it is because I know the almost disastrous effect of failure in such an enterprise, that I earnestly advise a very humble beginning. You must safeguard your self-respect. Self-respect is at the root of all purposefulness, and a failure in an enterprise deliberately planned deals a desperate wound at one’s self-respect. Hence I iterate and reiterate: Start quietly, unostentatiously.

When you have conscientiously given seven hours and a half a week to the cultivation of your vitality for three months—then you may begin to sing louder and tell yourself what wondrous things you are capable of doing.

Before coming to the method of using the indicated hours, I have one final suggestion to make. That is, as regards the evenings, to allow much more than an hour and a half in which to do the work of an hour and a half. Remember the chance of accidents. Remember human nature. And give yourself, say, from 9 to 11:30 for your task of ninety minutes.


People say: “One can’t help one’s thoughts.” But one can. The control of the thinking machine is perfectly possible. And since nothing whatever happens to us outside our own brain; since nothing hurts us or gives us pleasure except within the brain, the supreme importance of being able to control what goes on in that mysterious brain is patent. This idea is one of the oldest platitudes, but it is a platitude whose profound truth and urgency most people live and die without realising. People complain of the lack of power to concentrate, not witting that they may acquire the power, if they choose.

And without the power to concentrate—that is to say, without the power to dictate to the brain its task and to ensure obedience—true life is impossible. Mind control is the first element of a full existence.

Hence, it seems to me, the first business of the day should be to put the mind through its paces. You look after your body, inside and out; you run grave danger in hacking hairs off your skin; you employ 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 machinery of the mind, especially as you will require no extraneous aid? It is for this portion of the art and craft of living that I have reserved the time from the moment of quitting your door to the moment of arriving at your office.

“What? I am to cultivate my mind in the street, on the platform, in the train, and in the crowded street again?” Precisely. Nothing simpler! No tools required! Not even a book. Nevertheless, the affair is not easy.

When you leave your house, concentrate your mind on a subject (no matter what, to begin with). You will not have gone ten yards before your mind has skipped away under your very eyes and is larking round the corner with another subject.

Bring it back by the scruff of the neck. Ere you have reached the station you will have brought it back about forty times. Do not despair. Continue. Keep it up. You will succeed. You cannot by any chance fail if you persevere. It is idle to pretend that your mind is incapable of concentration. Do you not remember that morning when you received a disquieting letter which demanded a very carefully-worded answer? How you kept your mind steadily on the subject of the answer, without a second’s intermission, until you reached your office; whereupon you instantly sat down and wrote the answer? That was a case in which you were roused by circumstances to such a degree of vitality that you were able to dominate your mind like a tyrant. You would have no trifling. You insisted that its work should be done, and its work was done.

By the regular practice of concentration (as to which there is no secret—save the secret of perseverance) you can tyrannise over your mind (which is not the highest part of you) every hour of the day, and in no matter what place. The exercise is a very convenient one. If you got into your morning train with a pair of dumb-bells for your muscles or an encyclopaedia in ten volumes for your learning, you would probably excite remark. But as you walk in the street, or sit in the corner of the compartment behind a pipe, or “strap-hang” on the Subterranean, who is to know that you are engaged in the most important of daily acts? What asinine boor can laugh 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, and concentrate on something useful. I suggest—it is only a suggestion—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 the daily 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 and concentrate 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 to yourself: “This fellow was doing pretty well up to his seventh chapter. He had begun to interest me faintly. But what he says about thinking in trains, and concentration, and so on, is not for me. 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, you are the very man I am aiming at.

Throw away the suggestion, and you throw away the most precious suggestion that was ever offered to you. It is not my suggestion. It is the suggestion of the most sensible, practical, hard-headed men 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 half the evils of life—especially worry, that miserable, avoidable, shameful disease—worry!


The exercise of concentrating the mind (to which at least half an hour a day should be given) is a mere preliminary, like scales on the piano. Having acquired power over that most unruly member of one’s complex organism, one has naturally to put it to the yoke. Useless to possess an obedient mind unless one profits to the furthest possible degree by its obedience. A prolonged primary course of study is indicated.

Now as to what this course of study should be there cannot be any question; there never has been any question. All the sensible people 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 are so hackneyed that verily I blush to write them. Yet they must be written, for they need to be written. (I take back my blush, being ashamed of it.) Man, know thyself. I say it out loud. The phrase is one of those phrases with which everyone is familiar, of which everyone acknowledges the value, and which only the most sagacious put into practice. I don’t know why. I am entirely convinced that what is more than anything else lacking in the life of the average well-intentioned man of to-day is the reflective mood.

We do not reflect. I mean that we do not reflect upon genuinely important things; upon the problem of our happiness, upon the main direction in which we are going, upon what life is giving to us, upon the share which reason has (or has not) in determining our actions, and upon the relation between our principles and our conduct.

And yet you are in search of happiness, are you not? Have you discovered it?

The chances are that you have not. The chances are that you have already come to believe that happiness is unattainable. But men have attained it. And they have attained it by realising that happiness does not spring from the procuring of physical or mental pleasure, but from the development of reason and the adjustment of conduct to principles.

I suppose that you will not have the audacity to deny this. And if you admit it, and still devote no part of your day to the deliberate consideration of your reason, principles, and conduct, you admit also that while striving for a certain thing you are regularly leaving undone the one act which is necessary to the attainment of that thing.

Now, shall I blush, or will you?

Do not fear that I mean to thrust certain principles upon your attention. I care not (in this place) what your principles are. Your principles may induce you to believe in the righteousness of burglary. I don’t mind. All I urge is that a life in which conduct does not fairly well accord with principles is a silly life; and that conduct can only be made to accord with principles by means of daily examination, reflection, and resolution. What leads to the permanent sorrowfulness of burglars is that their principles are contrary to burglary. If they genuinely believed in the moral excellence of burglary, penal servitude would simply mean so many happy years for them; all martyrs are happy, because their conduct and their principles agree.

As for reason (which makes conduct, and is not unconnected with the making of principles), it plays a far smaller part in our lives than we fancy. We are supposed to be reasonable but we are much more instinctive than reasonable. And the less we reflect, the less reasonable we shall be. The next time you get cross with the waiter because your steak is over-cooked, ask reason to step into the cabinet-room of your mind, and consult her. She will probably tell you that the waiter did not cook the steak, and had no control over the cooking of the steak; and that even if he alone was to blame, you accomplished nothing good by getting cross; you merely lost your dignity, looked a fool in the eyes of sensible men, and soured the waiter, while producing no effect whatever on the steak.

The result of this consultation with reason (for which she makes no charge) will be that when once more your steak is over-cooked you will treat the waiter as a fellow-creature, remain quite calm in a kindly spirit, and politely insist on having a fresh steak. The gain will be obvious and solid.

In the formation or modification of principles, and the practice of conduct, much help can be derived from printed books (issued at sixpence each and upwards). I mentioned in my last chapter Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus. Certain even more widely known works will occur at once to the memory. I may also mention Pascal, La Bruyere, and Emerson. For myself, you do not catch me travelling without my Marcus Aurelius. Yes, books are valuable. But not reading of books will take the place of a daily, candid, honest examination of what one has recently done, and what one is about to do—of a steady looking at one’s self in the face (disconcerting though the sight may be).

When shall this important business be accomplished? The solitude of the evening journey home appears to me to be suitable for it. A reflective mood naturally follows the exertion of having earned the day’s living. Of course if, instead of attending to an elementary and profoundly important duty, you prefer to read the paper (which you might just as well read while waiting for your dinner) I have nothing to say. But attend to it at some time of the day you must. I now come to the evening hours.


Many people pursue a regular and uninterrupted course of idleness in the evenings because they think that there is no alternative to idleness but the study of literature; and they do not happen to have a taste for literature. This is a great mistake.

Of course it is impossible, or at any rate very difficult, properly to study anything whatever without the aid of printed books. But if you desire to understand the deeper depths of bridge or of boat-sailing you would not be deterred by your lack of interest in literature from reading the best books on bridge or boat-sailing. We must, therefore, distinguish between literature, and books treating of subjects not literary. I shall come to literature in due course.

Let me now remark to those who have never read Meredith, and who are capable of being unmoved by a discussion as to whether Mr. Stephen Phillips is or is not a true poet, that they are perfectly within their rights. It is not a crime not to love literature. It is not a sign of imbecility. The mandarins of literature will order out to instant execution the unfortunate individual who does not comprehend, say, the influence of Wordsworth on Tennyson. But that is only their impudence. Where would they be, I wonder, if requested to explain the influences that went to make Tschaikowsky’s “Pathetic Symphony”?

There are enormous fields of knowledge quite outside literature which will yield magnificent results to cultivators. For example (since I have just mentioned the most popular piece of high-class music in England to-day), I am reminded that the Promenade Concerts begin in August. You go to them. You smoke your cigar or cigarette (and I regret to say that you strike your matches during the soft bars of the “Lohengrin” overture), and you enjoy the music. But you say you cannot play the piano or the fiddle, or even the banjo; that you know nothing of music.

What does that matter? That you have a genuine taste for music is proved by the fact that, in order to fill his hall with you and your peers, the conductor is obliged to provide programmes from which bad music is almost entirely excluded (a change from the old Covent Garden days!).

Now surely your inability to perform “The Maiden’s Prayer” on a piano need not prevent you from making yourself familiar with the construction of the orchestra to which you listen a couple of nights a week during a couple of months! As things are, you probably think of the orchestra as a heterogeneous mass of instruments producing a confused agreeable mass of sound. You do not listen for details because you have never trained your ears to listen to details.

If you were asked to name the instruments which play the great theme at the beginning of the C minor symphony you could not name them for your life’s sake. Yet you admire the C minor symphony. It has thrilled you. It will thrill you again. You have even talked about it, in an expansive mood, to that lady—you know whom I mean. And all you can positively state about the C minor symphony is that Beethoven 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 a stall at the Alhambra, and which contains photographs of all the orchestral instruments and plans of the arrangement of orchestras) you would next go to a promenade concert with an astonishing intensification of interest in it. Instead of a confused mass, the orchestra would appear to you as what it is—a marvellously balanced organism whose various groups of members each have a different and an indispensable function. You would spy out the instruments, and listen for their respective sounds. You would know the gulf that separates a French horn from an English horn, and you would perceive why a player of the hautboy gets higher wages than a fiddler, though the fiddle is the more difficult instrument. You would live at a promenade concert, whereas previously you had merely existed there in a state of beatific coma, like a baby gazing at a bright object.

The foundations of a genuine, systematic knowledge of music might be laid. You might specialise your inquiries either on a particular form of music (such as the symphony), or on the works of a particular composer. At the end of a year of forty-eight weeks of three brief evenings each, combined with a study of programmes and attendances at concerts chosen out of your increasing knowledge, you would really know something about music, even though you were as far off 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 mention Mr. Clermont Witt’s “How to Look at Pictures,” or Mr. Russell Sturgis’s “How to Judge Architecture,” as beginnings (merely beginnings) of systematic vitalising knowledge in other arts, the materials for whose study abound in London.

“I hate all the arts!” you say. My dear sir, I respect you more and more.

I will deal with your case next, before coming to literature.


Art is a great thing. But it is not the greatest. The most important of all perceptions is the continual perception of cause and effect—in other words, the perception of the continuous development of the universe—in still other words, the perception of the course of evolution. When one has thoroughly got imbued into one’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 the thief of the watch became a thief from causes of heredity and environment which are as interesting as they are scientifically comprehensible; and one buys another watch, if not with joy, at any rate with a philosophy that makes bitterness impossible. One loses, in the study of cause and effect, that absurd air which so many people have of being always shocked and pained by the curiousness of life. Such people live amid human nature as if human nature were a foreign country full of awful foreign customs. But, having reached maturity, one ought surely to be ashamed of being a stranger in a strange land!

The study of cause and effect, while it lessens the painfulness of life, adds to life’s picturesqueness. The man to whom evolution is but a name looks at the sea as a grandiose, monotonous spectacle, which he can witness in August for three shillings third-class return. The man who is imbued with the idea of development, of continuous cause and effect, perceives in the sea an element which in the day-before-yesterday of geology was vapour, which yesterday was boiling, and which to-morrow will inevitably be ice.

He perceives that a liquid is merely something on its way to be solid, and he is penetrated by a sense of the tremendous, changeful picturesqueness of life. Nothing will afford a more durable satisfaction 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 in Shepherd’s Bush. It was painful and shocking that rents should go up in Shepherd’s Bush. But to a certain point we are all scientific students of cause and effect, and there was not a clerk lunching at a Lyons Restaurant who did not scientifically put two and two together and see in the (once) Two-penny Tube the cause of an excessive demand for wigwams in Shepherd’s Bush, and in the excessive demand for wigwams the cause of the increase in the price of wigwams.

“Simple!” you say, disdainfully. Everything—the whole complex movement of the universe—is as simple as that—when you can sufficiently put two and two together. And, my dear sir, perhaps you happen to be an estate agent’s clerk, and you hate the arts, and you want to foster your immortal soul, and you can’t be interested in your business because it’s so humdrum.

Nothing is humdrum.

The tremendous, changeful picturesqueness of life is marvellously shown in an estate agent’s office. What! There was a block of traffic in Oxford Street; to avoid the block people actually began to travel under the cellars and drains, and the result was a rise of rents in Shepherd’s Bush! And you say that isn’t picturesque! Suppose you were to study, in this spirit, the property question in London for an hour and a half every other evening. Would it not give zest to your business, and transform your whole life?

You would arrive at more difficult problems. And you would be able to tell us why, as the natural result of cause and effect, the longest straight street in London is about a yard and a half in length, while the longest absolutely straight street in Paris extends for miles. I think you will admit that in an estate agent’s clerk I have not chosen an example that specially favours my theories.

You are a bank clerk, and you have not read that breathless romance (disguised as a scientific study), Walter Bagehot’s “Lombard Street”? Ah, my dear sir, if you had begun with that, and followed it up for ninety minutes every other evening, how enthralling your business would be to you, and how much more clearly you would understand human nature.

You are “penned in town,” but you love excursions to the country and the observation of wild life—certainly a heart-enlarging diversion. Why don’t you walk out of your house door, in your slippers, to the nearest gas lamp of a night with a butterfly net, and observe the wild life of common and rare moths that is beating about it, and co-ordinate the knowledge thus obtained and build a superstructure on it, and at last get to know something about something?

You need not be devoted to the arts, not to literature, in order to live fully.

The whole field of daily habit and scene is waiting to satisfy that curiosity which means life, and the satisfaction of which means an understanding heart.

I promised to deal with your case, O man who hates art and literature, and I have dealt with it. I now come to the case of the person, happily very common, who does “like reading.”


Novels are excluded from “serious reading,” so that the man who, bent on self-improvement, has been deciding to devote ninety minutes three times a week to a complete study of the works of Charles Dickens will be well advised to alter his plans. The reason is not that novels are not serious—some of the great literature of the world is in the form of prose fiction—the reason is that bad novels ought not to be read, and that good novels never demand any appreciable mental application on the part of the reader. It is only the bad parts of Meredith’s novels that are difficult. A good novel rushes you forward like a skiff down a stream, and you arrive at the end, perhaps breathless, but unexhausted. The best novels involve the least strain. Now in the cultivation of the mind one of the most important factors is precisely the feeling of strain, of difficulty, of a task which one part of you is anxious to achieve and another part of you is anxious to shirk; and that feeling cannot be got in facing a novel. You do not set your teeth in order to 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 of pleasure, and teaches the highest form of wisdom. In a word, there is nothing to compare with it. I say this with sad consciousness of the fact that the majority of people do not read poetry.

I am persuaded that many excellent persons, if they were confronted with the alternatives of reading “Paradise Lost” and going round Trafalgar Square at noonday on their knees in sack-cloth, would choose the ordeal of public ridicule. Still, I will never cease advising my friends and enemies to read poetry before anything.

If poetry is what is called “a sealed book” to you, begin by reading Hazlitt’s famous essay on the nature of “poetry in general.” It is the best thing of its kind in English, and no one who has read it can possibly be under the misapprehension that poetry is a mediaeval torture, or a mad elephant, or a gun that will go off by itself and kill at forty paces. Indeed, it is difficult to imagine the mental state of the man who, after reading Hazlitt’s essay, is not urgently desirous of reading some poetry before his next meal. If the essay so inspires you I would suggest that you make a commencement with purely narrative poetry.

There is an infinitely finer English novel, written by a woman, than anything by George Eliot or the Brontes, or even Jane Austen, which perhaps you have not read. Its title is “Aurora Leigh,” and its author E.B. Browning. It happens to be written in verse, and to contain a considerable amount of genuinely fine poetry. Decide to read that book through, even if you die for it. Forget that it is fine poetry. Read it simply for the story and the social ideas. And when you have done, ask yourself honestly whether you still dislike poetry. I have known more than one person to whom “Aurora Leigh” has been the means of proving that in assuming they hated poetry they were entirely mistaken.

Of course, if, after Hazlitt, and such an experiment made in the light of Hazlitt, you are finally assured that there is something in you which is antagonistic to poetry, you must be content with history 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 Herbert Spencer’s “First Principles” simply laughs at the claims of poetry and refuses to be accepted as aught but the most majestic product of any human mind. I do not suggest that either of these works is suitable for a tyro in mental strains. But I see no reason why any man of average intelligence should not, after a year of continuous reading, be fit to assault the supreme masterpieces of history or philosophy. The great convenience of masterpieces is that they are so astonishingly lucid.

I suggest no particular work as a start. The attempt would be futile in the space of my command. But I have two general suggestions of a certain importance. The first is to define the direction and scope of your efforts. Choose a limited period, or a limited subject, or a single author. Say to yourself: “I will know something about the French Revolution, or the rise of railways, or the works of John Keats.” And during a given period, to be settled beforehand, confine yourself to your choice. There is much pleasure to be derived from being a specialist.

The second suggestion is to think as well as to read. I know people who read and read, and for all the good it does them they might just as well cut bread-and-butter. They take to reading as better men take to drink. They fly through the shires of literature on a motor-car, their sole object being motion. They will tell you how many books they have read in a year.

Unless you give at least forty-five minutes to careful, fatiguing reflection (it is an awful bore at first) upon what you are reading, your ninety minutes of a night are chiefly wasted. This means that your pace will be slow.

Never mind.

Forget the goal; think only of the surrounding country; and after a period, perhaps when you least expect it, you will suddenly find yourself in a lovely town on a hill.


I cannot terminate these hints, often, I fear, too didactic and abrupt, upon the full use of one’s time to the great end of living (as distinguished from vegetating) without briefly referring to certain dangers which lie in wait for the sincere aspirant towards life. The first is the terrible danger of becoming that most odious and least supportable of persons—a prig. Now a prig is a pert fellow who gives himself airs of superior wisdom. A prig is a pompous fool who has gone out for a ceremonial walk, and without knowing it has lost an important part of his attire, namely, his sense of humour. A prig is a tedious individual who, having made a discovery, is so impressed by his discovery that he is capable of being gravely displeased because the entire world is not also impressed by it. Unconsciously to become a prig is an easy and a fatal thing.

Hence, when one sets forth on the enterprise of using all one’s time, it is just as well to remember that one’s own time, and not other people’s time, is the material with which one has to deal; that the earth rolled on pretty comfortably before one began to balance a budget of the hours, and that it will continue to roll on pretty comfortably whether or not one succeeds in one’s new role of chancellor of the exchequer of time. It is as well not to chatter too much about what one is doing, and not to betray a too-pained sadness at the spectacle of a whole world deliberately wasting so many hours out of every day, and therefore never really living. It will be found, ultimately, that in taking care of one’s self one has quite all one can do.

Another danger is the danger of being tied to a programme like a slave to a chariot. One’s programme must not be allowed to run away with one. It must be respected, but it must not be worshipped as a fetish. A programme of daily employ is not a religion.

This seems obvious. Yet I know men whose lives are a burden to themselves and a distressing burden to their relatives and friends simply because they have failed to appreciate the obvious. “Oh, no,” I have heard the martyred wife exclaim, “Arthur always takes the dog out for exercise at eight o’clock and he always begins to read at a quarter to nine. So it’s quite out of the question that we should…” etc., etc. And the note of absolute finality in that plaintive voice reveals the unsuspected and ridiculous tragedy of a career.

On the other hand, a programme is a programme. And unless it is treated with deference it ceases to be anything but a poor joke. To treat one’s programme with exactly the right amount of deference, to live with not too much and not too little elasticity, is scarcely the simple affair it may appear to the inexperienced.

And still another danger is the danger of developing a policy of rush, of being gradually more and more obsessed by what one has to do next. In this way one may come to exist as in a prison, and one’s life may cease to be one’s own. One may take the dog out for a walk at eight o’clock, and meditate the whole time on the fact that one must begin to read at a quarter to nine, and that one must not be late.

And the occasional deliberate breaking of one’s programme will not help to mend matters. The evil springs not from persisting without elasticity in what one has attempted, but from originally attempting too much, from filling one’s programme till it runs over. The only cure is to reconstitute the programme, and to attempt less.

But the appetite for knowledge grows by what it feeds on, and there are men who come to like a constant breathless hurry of endeavour. Of them it may be said that a constant breathless hurry is better than 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 to pass with exaggerated deliberation from one portion of it to another; for example, to spend five minutes in perfect mental quiescence between chaining up the St. Bernard and opening the book; in other words, to waste five minutes with the entire consciousness of wasting them.

The last, and chiefest danger which I would indicate, is one to which I have already referred—the risk of a failure at the commencement of the enterprise.

I must insist on it.

A failure at the commencement may easily kill outright the newborn impulse towards a complete vitality, and therefore every precaution should 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 be as regular as possible.

And, having once decided to achieve a certain task, achieve it at all costs of tedium and distaste. The gain in self-confidence of having 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 natural inclination.

It is a fine thing to be a walking encyclopaedia of philosophy, but if you happen to have no liking for philosophy, and to have a like for the natural history of street-cries, much better leave philosophy alone, and take to street-cries.

{ 73 comments… read them below or add one }

1 Andrew January 2, 2014 at 4:48 pm

It’s worth noting that this book is free for the kindle:

2 Brian Reinholz January 2, 2014 at 5:32 pm

30 minutes huh? You must read quite a bit faster than me Brett…took me 30 minutes to read the first half, then I had to skim because I “ran out of time.” :D

He has great points, though I don’t think most people’s problem is not knowing what to do with time. It’s bad habits, a love for comfort over continuous improvement (which we’re all susceptible to), and not having a clear end to work toward. (Great, I learn all this and grow in thought and skill, but to what end??)

All that being said, I agree strongly with his assertions of time as a gift, recommendations on how to use it wisely, and the conclusion that in taking time out for continuous improvement we will enjoy the rest of our time far more and live a more excellent life in all respects.

I think of Covey’s tip to begin with the end in mind. If we firmly have a greater end in mind: whether to lead our kids into a life of character and self-discipline, to achieve a leadership role in such and such respect, to leave a legacy (whatever that means), or to make a significant impact in a social or spiritual cause, well…I think that makes it far easier to take your thoughts captive and invest your time well.

3 BazB January 2, 2014 at 6:08 pm

I timed it and it took me 36 minutes to read. I also checked and found it’s about 10,000 words. Reading 10,000 words should not take longer than 40 minutes. I think some people don’t realize they are slower than average readers. If you want to gain more knowledge, learning to read quicker is one of the best things to do.

I also don’t think the author’s point is that most people don’t know how to use their time, it is that most people don’t realize they have time — period. Everyone thinks they are incredibly busy and don’t have time for anything else but barely existing. The idea here is that you DO have a lot of time and you just don’t realize it. His prescription on how to use that time is really an afterthought in my opinion.

I feel just as he said in wanting to do something beyond my ordinary “programme” but I disagree with the author that for most people that itch is to gain more knowledge. At least it isn’t for me. I guess maybe that is because I am a teacher and already spend a lot of my time gaining knowledge. The itch I feel is for doing something more exciting, more adventurous. I just don’t know what that is is the problem. But this did give me the motivation to realize I have time to do more than work and surf the net at night. I just need to figure out what to do with my time that will make me feel more alive.

4 Matt January 2, 2014 at 6:43 pm

The idea that “most people don’t know how to use their time” and the idea that “Everyone thinks they’re incredibly busy and don’t have time for anything else but barely existing.” In my opinion is one in the same. If you feel as though you’re incredibly busy and merely have time to exist you certainly won’t be able to manage your time effectively and know what to do with it.

Not knowing how to use your time is just as deficient as not knowing you have the time.

5 Don B January 2, 2014 at 7:27 pm

I think that the author is asking us spend our real “16 hour” day being “active” instead of “passive”. Whether it be by learning more, experiencing more, etc. Gaining more knowledge – different arts, books – could and would lead into other activities: playing a new instrument, traveling to a new place.

6 Jeff January 2, 2014 at 8:34 pm

If you don’t have as much time to read as you would like the audiobook app has it for free.

I’m listening to ‘How to Live on Twenty-Four Hours a Day’ in Audiobooks for iOS.

7 Jon January 2, 2014 at 9:03 pm

This took me a solid hour. There were times were I had to go to the dictionary to look up words.

8 Dewaine January 2, 2014 at 9:31 pm

Arnold Bennett’s writing style is oppressive, unbearable.

I’m sure he has important insights; it is no wonder so few people know of them.

9 Bobby G. January 2, 2014 at 10:50 pm

A friend once told that people give him a hard time because he reads and learns and tries to constanly improve himself, so, he must “think he is better than the rest of us”. He answered, ” You know what? I am better that you and I will be better than you tomorrow and the day after that and next year. Why? Because I choose to be better.”
I believe he was correct.

10 Kent Sanders January 2, 2014 at 10:52 pm

Great article, Brett. Thanks for posting it. Some of the best books were written many years ago but are still incredibly relevant today.

11 James M January 2, 2014 at 11:14 pm

Excellent! I think a key part of manliness is being deliberate. So often I find myself doing something (or not doing something) because of an external excuse, rather than an internal deliberate choice. In 2014 I will choose to use my time more deliberately and less passively. Thanks for sharing this book!

12 Scott January 2, 2014 at 11:26 pm

Spooky! I literally read this book on new year’s eve. I like the tone of his writing, though.

13 Taarax January 2, 2014 at 11:26 pm

It took me about an hour to read (I’m a very meticulous reader though)…and it was definitely an hour well spent. Thanks for sharing this!

14 Tej January 2, 2014 at 11:29 pm

Thank You , Brett & Kate.

15 Scott January 2, 2014 at 11:47 pm

It took my wife and 1 hour to read this article, dicussing points, bemoaning the fact we don’t understand London culture or places from 100 years ago, etc. We did enjoy his main points though…we even read a few poems together!

16 Jeffrey Stuart Gibson January 3, 2014 at 12:02 am

Dear Brett and Kate ;

What a delightful article and a gift ! Thank you, very much. I am in my 64th year and for the past five years, time has seemed to be accelerating. This piece, for me, is timely.

Your loyal reader,
Jeffrey Stuart Gibson

17 Michel January 3, 2014 at 12:13 am

“The most important preliminary to the task of arranging one’s life so that one may live fully and comfortably within one’s daily budget of twenty-four hours is the calm realisation of the extreme difficulty of the task, of the sacrifices and the endless effort which it demands. I cannot too strongly insist on this.”

This. I want to take full advantage of my days and that means less sleep. I will have to train my body to run on less sleep. Sometimes I sleep too much and other times I just want to be lazy. But to be the man that I want to be requires that I wake up early and go to bed late. My toughest challenge will be balancing sleep. If I can get 6 hours a night of sleep that will be enough. If I get less than that then I have to soldier on about my duties and make it up when I get home.

18 Zak January 3, 2014 at 2:35 am

I think this is one of the best things I have ever read on this site. I honestly loved the author’s writing style; I felt like he was speaking directly to me. Thank you so much for this.

19 Rahul January 3, 2014 at 4:42 am

Very nice article. He is spot on when he talks about that feeling of unease and the aspiration to do more with life. I found his writing style quite humorous (In a very understated sort of way).

However, I would not agree with him when he says that novels don’t really teach you or give you anything to think about. The best novels always do and even the worst can always give you something to think about. I think this statement is more applicable to 70% of Television programming though.

20 Neil Gould January 3, 2014 at 6:14 am

That has to be the best piece of writing I’ve read in years. Old fashioned and beautiful yet so absorbing. One to re-read definitely. Lots of practical ideas and great reading matter to follow up on. Thanks for sharing .

21 kathleen January 3, 2014 at 7:10 am

I thoroughly enjoy reading your articles on AOM. I like that you have defined what you want to provide to your readership and then you give it. So many other venues submit to dumbing down. As a woman and an educator, I am thrilled that your articles require some investment of time and intellect. A little bending of the brain to take in old information in new ways. Please keep doing what you do. And if your audience expands to more women, please do not cater to us. I love the insight from your current POV.

22 Justin Long January 3, 2014 at 7:43 am

What a terrific article and could it have not been posted at a better time!? I completed my first journal entry of the year and my 6-Word Memoir was “Not enough time; Never enough money”. I am glad that I was able to see a more positive perspective on the way I have felt this past year.

23 Jay C January 3, 2014 at 7:47 am

Wonderful blog from the early 20th century. It took about 30 minutes, as if that is of any importance. The simple sharing with the world is commendable. The voice of the writer was excellent, and well understood; bits and pieces would make an excellent speech.

24 Tim January 3, 2014 at 8:52 am

Excellent article. Up there with “Becoming Superhuman” and the series on vocations. I’d love to read an analysis from a modern perspective from Brett and Kate, they certainly excel in that area.

25 Native Son January 3, 2014 at 10:48 am

Very nice post. Even though the scheduling and daily routine are Edwardian, the cautions about mindlessly letting time slip by are even more applicable in contemporary times.

26 drx January 3, 2014 at 11:19 am

Lacks brevity.

27 Nick January 3, 2014 at 11:38 am

Really enjoyed his thoughts on Cause and Effect and how they can help rein in our emotions, as well as see the world in a more connected way.

28 Scriabin January 3, 2014 at 1:52 pm

Excessively wordy and Senaca said it better 2,000 years ago.

29 Jason Ellis January 3, 2014 at 2:37 pm

It’s nice to see that finding life balance and happiness for the limited time we have (even in a single day) is something that spans the ages. I actually have this book on Kindle.

30 Cass Dowdy January 3, 2014 at 3:30 pm

Thank you for this. I was going to request a treatise on how to use LEVERAGE in ordering one’s day. It would seem that thought vibrations have indeed pierced the ether and found their way behind the Manliness curtain of Oz.

31 John January 3, 2014 at 3:42 pm

Some very good points, but the writing style makes for difficult and time consuming reading. The same important and valid points could have been made in half the words.

32 Andrew January 3, 2014 at 3:47 pm

I appreciated Arnold Bennett’s encouragement to make something of our evening time, it’s something that I have begun in the new year (20+ minutes of reading and journaling). At the same time, as another said, his style is oppressive. Also, my impression was that Mr. Bennett is actually concerned with productivity and self-improvement, which are a small portion of one’s life when one’s relationships are factored in.

33 LJ January 3, 2014 at 3:52 pm

He says newspaper are a waste of time in V. Tennis and the immortal soul. Could not be further from the truth. This may be the most important thing any sales man reads everyday of his life in order to converse with clients or future ones. Read P.T. Barnum’s “The art of Money Getting”. It’s as quick a read as this

34 Nathan January 3, 2014 at 6:42 pm

I’m not surprised that a former lawyer was able to read faster than others… it’s part of the career. That said, I didn’t time myself, and I enjoyed it however long it took. (I had to pause near the end anyway to tend to my toddler.)

My two-pence takeaway is to make deliberate use of at least half of my evenings on something challenging and enlightening, within a narrow field. Good advice. A reminder to get back into the Khan Academy linear algebra course I was working on before Christmas holiday. (There’s more to learning than just words.)

35 Ron Peters January 3, 2014 at 6:54 pm

If nothing else, I’m able to read Krehbiel’s How to Listen to Music online as a result of this!

36 Jim Wilder January 3, 2014 at 8:16 pm

I so appreciate whoever put this on the site. I have discovered Aurelius, but not Epictetus. I love music, but I haven’t appreciated the orchestra – I know there’s much more there to be aware of – nothing, especially music – is humdrum. I haven never appreciated poetry – until recently – but I understand his point that it is more of a strain – it takes more involvement and imagination. I’m looking forward to pushing myself a bit. I know I should, and now I’m more sure I can.

37 Lane January 3, 2014 at 8:48 pm

I loved this book. Thank you for posting. It took me a bit longer than 30 minutes, but that’s just because my mind is very susceptible to distractions. So obviously the subject was spot on for me. I don’t think this book is about time management as much as it is about making sure we dedicate some time to cultivating our minds and enriching our lives. I’m excited to begin learning “mind control” and teaching my brain to behave. I also particularly loved the part about we don’t reflect as we should. Saying we don’t reflect on things of great value. It reminded me of the potential hazard in Facebook where I find myself scrolling through endless updates, some of which may be amusing, but Missy if which are trivial and fleeting. The same principle applies to the tremendous selection of news stories out there.
Overall, it was a delightful read and I’m cautiously setting up my programme now.

38 Reed January 3, 2014 at 11:48 pm

It’s interesting to see the different reactions to the same piece. Personally, this took me about 50 minutes (I’m admittedly a slower than average reader), but I truly thought it was one of the best and most delightful things I’ve read in a very long time. I loved the author’s tone and style.

I looked up more about the book after I read this and it’s interesting to note that it was a mega bestseller in both American and London when it was originally published. This makes me think that if we find his style difficult or think it’s too wordy (10,000 words is really short for a WHOLE BOOK I’d say), it’s probably our modern reading skills and lack of attention span than it is the actual material that is the problem….

39 Sil January 4, 2014 at 1:56 am

I don’t believe the author ever made the claim that one should read his words in a certain amount of time or in one sitting.

And very interesting work indeed I think.

40 C.G January 4, 2014 at 10:33 am

This is a great excerpt in Manvotionals. When you think of your day as “24hrs of the unmanufactured tissue of the universe of your life”, you are a little more conscious of using it well!

41 Josh K January 4, 2014 at 1:01 pm

I’m not going to comment on how long it took me to read this, I didn’t read it all in one chunk. But here are some thoughts:

1.) It’s nice to see that the problems of distraction and wasted time didn’t start with cell phones and the internet. Maybe these things have worsened the problems or made it easier to fall into them, but they didn’t create them outright.

2.) I really agree with his theory that you need to start slow. This applies in lots of things. If you can’t spend 15 minutes per day doing basic exercises like push-ups or skipping, it’s probably not worth it to spend money on a gym membership. Jumping into something that’s beyond your capacity is usually discouraging.

3.) I disagree about novels, at least classic novels. Things like Les Miserables or The Brothers Karamozov are challenging to us now because we are so far removed from that style of writing.

4.) I really appreciated what he said about reading slowly and reflectively. I know guys who are always sharing their reading lists or bragging about how many books they’ve read. Often, they’re just a bunch of leadership and management books that basically say the same things and will be obsolete in five years.

5.) The caution about becoming a snob or a prig is also important. Even if your self-improvement program means you don’t want to listen to top 40 radio or read Tom Clancy novels or eat at Five Guys anymore, don’t judge other people. And really, the worst snobs aren’t usually the people who have actually formed real preferences through a program like this, they often are just trying to appear cultured or fit into a crowd.

It made me think about a number of things: how much time I spend doing more or less nothing online on a regular basis, how many podcasts I try to listen to, whether I’m really tired or just lazy.

42 Phillip Christenson January 5, 2014 at 12:24 pm

Thanks for sharing Brett. I read it and will re-read it. I have always wanted to read Marcus Aurelius and this have given me a reason to start now. “How to listen to Music” is on my list now as well.

Brett, you continue to find great resources for self improvement. Keep it up.

43 Gus January 6, 2014 at 9:46 am

Bobby G.- I wish I had said what your friend said. I feel like that sometimes. Part of this is recognizing your weakness, and choosing courage to overcome-to do what needs to be done. It is very liberating! to have courage and choose! I get hope to support my courage as I follow Jesus Christ. I owe my continued progress to him. I’m excited to read this.

44 Yaseen January 6, 2014 at 5:02 pm

Really good book, something most people should read and try to apply it in our lives.

‘the chief beauty about the constant supply of time is that you cannot waste it in advance’ – loved this!

45 Alberto January 6, 2014 at 7:59 pm

I did think the article was intensive and of an intensely requiring nature. However, I found myself uttering inaudibly regarding how smart this man is. Sheer connection and enlightening recognition. I am ashamed to say, I have at times shown qualities mimicking a prig. Without even much of a vitality seizing program to back it up until now. While reading this work i found myself swapping back and forth between window tabs to search definitions. I also transcribed various quotes of passages I found exceptionally momentous. Thus, it took me an innumerable amount of time more to engulf it than those who just read it. Though that might of been singularly due to his “oppressive” writing style. Really, I just think the man is much more trained and skilled than me.

I still need to come back to this article again tonight or tomorrow to really assimilate it and apply it to my life.

46 John January 6, 2014 at 10:51 pm

Thank you for this

47 Shinken January 7, 2014 at 9:11 am

Great read! I thought it interesting how the section on controlling the mind seemed like a western man’s version of Buddhist mindfulness practices. There have been some fascinating studies on mindfulness practice and neurology, which showed that the human brain is not finished forming at adulthood, but maintains neuroplasticity throughout the life of a human. Basically, if you devote yourself to some kind of mindfulness practice, you can actually rewire your brain to be more resilient, more attentive, and less susceptible to illness and distraction. Check out the studies done on ‘Olympic meditators’. It is a practice with immense benefits, even for those who can only devote a little time; consistency is the key.

I think the author’s focus on gaining different types of knowledge is a reflection of the world at that time. It was a time when people still got together and had discussions about meaningful topics; it was how they shared and sharpened knowledge. The man with a well-rounded knowledge base in today’s world will be hard-pressed to find a venue for face-to-face discussion about anything other than TV, sports, celebrities, or ‘the stupid government.’
In a world where we have these conversations online, anyone can have the opportunity to use Wikipedia and Google to supplement their own knowledge, thus deceptively making anyone seem like some kind of expert. I search for men in my life with whom I can have meaningful, face-to-face conversations.

48 Marc January 7, 2014 at 12:02 pm

I downloaded it last night on my Nook. It took me about 2 hours to read. I kept getting interrupted by the kids. Apparently, they forgot to make allowances for accidents and human nature. Lol.

49 Nicholas F January 7, 2014 at 12:39 pm

Very insightful, thank you.

50 marqui January 7, 2014 at 3:05 pm

Good Read. Full of nuggets.

51 Jeff January 7, 2014 at 4:12 pm

I give a summary of the program suggested by Bennett on my blog here:

Turns out there is not much to it, which is recommendation in itself.

52 Errol W January 7, 2014 at 10:06 pm

Great read!
The notion of time as a finite, limited asset is very well conveyed.
My most significant take away is the concept of training the mind to focus on ‘something specific’ every wakeful moment!

53 YL January 8, 2014 at 12:48 am

This is probably some of the best advice that I read this year. I have struggled with trying to over schedule my day and then becoming overwhelmed and anxious when I do not get everything in.

I definitely recommend this reading.

54 Karli January 8, 2014 at 11:00 am

This is beautifully written. Great brain food. Thank you for sharing!

55 ganesh January 8, 2014 at 6:40 pm

Anyone can waste his/her future waste by just going into jail.. Lol
by the way its an excellent article

56 Mr. Darcey January 8, 2014 at 7:14 pm

I read it. It was a good read and pointed out that I need to change my attitude on how I look at my days. I have many hobbies that I like and I cannot fit them into the weekends. My weekdays consist of waking up, dreading work, working and then decompressing in front of a TV and starting over the next day. Just taking the idea that my day does not begin until after work has led me to fix the seat in my truck, load 300 rounds for a pistol match, 200 more for practice, put new tires on my bicycle and started riding again, at 9-10pm. Fixed an electrical short on my motorcycle…all in the time after work in the last 3 evenings. I feel better about myself, work harder during the day because I have things to look forward to in the evening…this was a good read indeed.

57 Dalton January 8, 2014 at 8:32 pm

This article was NOT what I expected. It was much more! I expected, as suggested in the book, a lesson in how to plan your day, to make schedules, to find ways to reduce the amount of time wasted during the day. This, however, was not the case. This is an idea – a philosophy, if you will – on how to make use of the minutes and hours that life wastes for you, without your permission, how to make the most of every minute without stressing yourself with schedules and counting minutes. This is a solid plan that can, with proper application, lead to the ultimate goal that is a better self.

Aside from how much I enjoyed the aricle, let me just say that I really enjoyed the reading of it. I wish that people still communicated in that style.

Thanks for sharing this book with us! I don’t know that I ever would have found it on my own. It is definitely worth reading!

58 Brock January 9, 2014 at 3:57 pm

This is amazing. So applicable to modern men and women. I love the tone of the whole thing…

“‘I hate all the arts!’ you say. My dear sir, I respect you more and more.”

Haha…so funny. I am definitely going to put some of this into practice.

I wonder what would be different (in the details of these suggestions) if written today, in a world of language-learning apps, online tutorials, etc.

Maybe not much??


59 Andy January 9, 2014 at 10:26 pm

Those disagreeing with the author’s view of novels may note Bennett was actually a novelist!

60 Bryan January 10, 2014 at 5:45 am

I read this book at least once a year. If you like Bennett’s approach to self and time management, try his book “The Human Machine.”

61 MSJ January 10, 2014 at 6:28 am

I took 68 min to read this…..
Title is a bit misleading, It should have been “Make the most of your time.. or so..”

It is rewarding to be read this book.

Thanks a ton to Brett & Kate mckay..

Keep such articles coming..

62 Keith January 10, 2014 at 7:45 am

I thought this was a great read.

Even though this was written over 100 years ago, he is reflecting upon the condition of modern man: you work a job, hustle through everything else, then waste away your time and never feel like you do enough.

To think about it, he is basically suggesting two things…:

- Do a little brain training, since our focus and mindfulness [even in 1910] is shit. Imagine how much more now with constant media saturation. Think now about men smoking and reading the paper on the way to work on a London train vs. us browsing Facebook and listening to music [without actually hearing it], while commuting. Yeah… I’d like to give it a try. 30 min every morning for concentrating/meditating on something that is not your day to day job… yeah, I bet that would perk the brain up more than a paper/Facebook/whatever in the AM.

- 4 nights a week taking 1.5 hours to read something/do something that takes a little effort for 45 min and to think about it for 45 min. Like as he gives in an example, you use that to study about symphonies or whatever and after a year, you’ll know quite a bit. Now apply that nowadays… pick up something by Carl Sagan [which makes you think, but is readable] or hell, a book about programming design patterns, or business psychology, or a foreign language… you will probably be using more brainpower outside of work [and probably more than most work] than you did since college. It really doesn’t have to be anything in particular, but something you enjoy, is worthwhile to you, and requires effort.

I think timeboxing these things is what may make them work. It’s like in college… if you commit yourself to another couple hours a day to something in your already busy schedule, it will kind of fit. Not convenient at all times, but you can make it fit.

I think in this age of dumbing down, 10 second soundbites, and not having the time to think, salvaging this little time to contemplation and learning is kind of nice. I think if we are reading this blog, we are already the sort who want to better ourselves in one way or another and feel that getting a little more feeling of accomplishment and more stimulation than sitting on the couch watching Netflix is in itself attractive.

He is asking you to take up an intellectual hobby of some sort–any sort–and telling you that you will feel like you have more time and will have lived each day more because of it.

I particularly like since he lays out all the pitfalls of any sort of hobbyist endeavor, including the biggest one: throwing yourself too hard on it and tiring of it quickly. He cites picking up the hardest books of history or philosophy or over-committing your time. He doesn’t say, “Man up and push as hard and fast, at the exclusion of other things,” but simple to carve out some time you will likely not miss and to take it as shamefully slow as you need to keep a pace.

I also think it is great the observation that “modern man” is pale and tired, but in fact isn’t. Just numb. Just not stimulated enough. I love the opera example. You are not tired after work if you had good plans… you would man up and do it and enjoy it all the more. Unless you are hauling bricks all day, you are probably not as tired as you think you are. You are just not feeling like you are getting anything done but work every day. Something I can relate to most days.

63 James G January 10, 2014 at 12:57 pm

What a Fantastic Post!

I pleasant kick to the pants in the right direction. I also was faced with the interrogative: leery or lazy?

I am reminded of the Bible passage James 1:22-25. Although this post places an emphasis on mental growth, it is nothing if not applied. I have been challenged to make more use of my time by the application of things I have already focused on learning.

Thanks Brett!

64 Bryan January 10, 2014 at 4:44 pm

The most valuable lesson in this article for me is to start small with a well-defined focus. I do spend the bulk of my time on various worthy pursuits, but that hasn’t helped me very much because I’ve spread that time between too many aspirations.

65 J. E. Michel January 11, 2014 at 3:24 pm

Still relevant today!

We need to have a plan, stay focused, use our time wisely, seek knowledge and evolve with the universe.

We are what we know and the more we know, the better we are.

66 Toni Osai January 14, 2014 at 7:50 am

I had drawn up an elaborate table (and I do mean ‘table’) of new year resolutions; a table so huge that I had dedicated one day for the next five days to studying the ‘resolutions’, mapping out strategies for accomplishing the goals and a whole lot of other stuff I now feel sorry to have attempted. There is no humanly possible way I could have accomplished a quarter of what I intended to in just 12 months.

A while into this book and I was about to rush to my ‘table’ and tear it down. A few pages more and I realised I needed to just slow down and think, reflect on what I had read and how it affects me. I think I get it, but I know it probably hasn’t stuck.

So I’m realising as I write this comment and am pacing, that I need to begin my daily 45 minutes in the evening with this book all over again.Maybe after some days the ideas in this book will stick and then I can move on to perhaps kicking a few things off that ‘table’.

Thanks for posting this book. Best thing I’ve read since my undergrad days.

67 Jon January 14, 2014 at 7:13 pm

Great read. It was tedious at times since I really had to focus to understand what he meant due to his writing style and the age of the book. This only enhanced my experience though.

68 Jake January 15, 2014 at 9:00 am

I’m glad I read through this. I’m actually going to read Aurora Leigh based on this recommendation and see if Poetry produces the thought provoking strain that he says it does.

It’s so fascinating that we all think we’re so much busier and our lives so much more complex than past generations, and yet we can see here that it’s the same struggle over and over.

69 Noufal Ibrahim January 17, 2014 at 11:03 am

This book (and many other classic old ones) are at the under appreciated Internet Archive. You can read it online over here or download it in various formats over here

70 Jason January 18, 2014 at 6:37 pm

May have already been mentioned, but this is the free book of the month for Audible through Amazon whispersync

Just as a side note: One issue I consider to be highly relevant today but wasn’t a focus of the article is the time spent worrying. The author suggests taking time to think and focus on a subject of interest, but when the average person decides to focus and think today more often than not they worry about work, bills, kids, etc. Interesting to think how differently we would live our lives if that time spent worrying about what has happened was spent actively planning and considering our lives and plans in advance based on constructive reflection rather than obsessive anxiety. Not that this is the case for everyone, but I’m sure it’s familiar for many.

71 Derek January 19, 2014 at 1:37 am

What an excellent read. Let us avoid the awful habit of when telling others about this, ‘You should read it.’ Tell them. Innumerate the lessons and what to avoid. If they wish to read it, they can — they always could have.

72 AtlasAikido January 30, 2014 at 12:33 am

Thank you Noufal Ibrahim January 17, 2014 at 11:03 am: for this: “The proper, wise balancing of one’s whole life may depend on the feasibility of a cup of tea at an unusual hour”. See page XIV

73 aditya menon February 3, 2014 at 7:47 pm

Freaking amazing is what this is. Thanks for sharing it! Wow.

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