Beware of Pity

by Stefan Zweig

It is never until one realizes that one means something to others that one feels there is any point or purpose in one’s own existence.

For the first time I began to perceive that true sympathy cannot be switched on and off like an electric current, that anyone who identifies himself with the fate of another is robbed to some extent of his own freedom.

In order to picture to myself a talented doctor such as Kekesfalva had described to me, I had confined my imagination to those characteristics which the average producer and theatrical wig-maker exploit to present the typical stage doctor; a spiritualized countenance, a keen and penetrating eye, an impressive bearing, a scintillating wit again and again we fall hopelessly into the foolish error of thinking that Nature sets a special staill on outstanding individuals so that they may be recognized at a glance.

No envy is more mean than that of small-minded beings when they see a neighbour lifted, as though borne aloft by angels, out of the dull drudgery of their common existence; petty spirits are more ready to forgive a prince the most fabulous wealth rather than a fellow-sufferer beneath the same yoke the smallest degree of freedom.

In all our actions vanity is, after all, one of the most powerful driving forces, and weak natures in particular succumb to the temptation to do something which, viewed superficially, makes them appear strong, courageous and resolute.

Those whom Fate has dealt hard knocks remain vulnerable forever afterwards.’