The Three Great Sins of Americans
The three great sins of Americans are their result-oriented mindset, their punctuality, and their drive for achievement and success. Ironically, it is precisely these traits that make Americans so unhappy and anxious.
They rob themselves of their inalienable right to idleness. Beyond the noble art of getting things done lies an even nobler art: letting things remain undone.
There is no debate that efficiency ensures things are done well. The world will always have enough fools willing to be useful, bustling about, and delighting in their power, so life's tasks get accomplished, and the world moves forward. Our only complaint against efficiency is that it is a great thief of time, stealing from us the hours we could spend enjoying ourselves. The modern, industrial pace of life does not permit the blissful and delightful art of doing nothing. Instead, it imposes a different perception of time upon us—one measured by the clock—and ultimately turns humans into timepieces themselves. Americans have reached the point where their schedules are not only planned for the day but for the entire month ahead.
The Americans' inability to embrace idleness stems directly from their relentless drive to act, their inclination to value doing over simply being. Older Americans, in particular, cling to their desire for action to preserve their self-esteem and earn the recognition of younger generations.
Occasionally, I have a vision, a beautiful vision of Manhattan at the end of the century, when the pace of the metropolis slows, and the American go-getter transforms into an Eastern-style idler. American gentlemen, dressed in shirts and sandals with their hands in their pockets, will leisurely saunter up and down Broadway—or perhaps even stroll with their hands tucked into their sleeves, like the Chinese. Police officers will greet pedestrians lingering in the street, and drivers will stop their cars in the middle of traffic to ask acquaintances about their grandmother's health.
Someone will brush their teeth outside their shop, then engage in a peaceful chat with neighboring storekeepers. Every now and then, an absent-minded professor will meander by, a thin bundle of papers under their arm. Corner fast-food stands will disappear, and people will recline in soft, plush armchairs during lunch breaks. A single glass of orange juice will last no less than half an hour, and people will learn to sip wine slowly while enjoying cheerful conversations.
Hospital admissions will cease to exist, and ambulances will become unknown: patients will exchange ideas with their doctors. Fire trucks will crawl at a snail's pace, with firefighters pausing along the way to admire a flock of wild geese and debate their exact number.
It's a pity there's no hope for such a Manhattan by the turn of the century. But perhaps we may at least have lazier afternoons than we do today. (1937)
Lin Yutang "Az élet sója", Tericum kiadó, 2000