Some jokes make you laugh, some make you groan, some make you cringe–and most of them give some insight into the mind of the person telling it (“That was supposed to be funny?”). The best jokes, the ones that stand the test of time, make you think, often by showing you a bit of truth that was hidden in plain sight; once it’s revealed, you discover that you see it everywhere, and life looks a tiny bit different forever after. Jokes made rich men of Milton Berle and Johnny Carson, but the world will much longer remember the work of humorists like Mark Twain, Lenny Bruce, and George Carlin.
I wish I knew the author of one particular joke, because I’d gladly thank him or her for the philosophical seed it planted in my head. It’s very old (as you will easily tell from its details), and arguably not all that funny, but ever since I first heard it, I’ve pondered a truth probably unrecognized by its creator, yet as vital and full of wisdom as any utterance by any guru on any mountaintop. And now, here’s the joke already:
Whenever Billy’s parents had visitors, they would bring him out and introduce him. “Our son is such a humble child,” they exclaimed in full parental pride, “that if you were to offer him a choice of two coins, he would always take the one of lesser value, because we’ve raised him to have modest tastes and never to act out of greed.” And inevitably, one of the guests would hold out a hand to the child and say, “Billy, here’s a nickel and a dime. Take whichever one you like.” And Little Billy would reach for the nickel, saying a quiet “Thank you” to the suitably impressed visitor. This scene was repeated again and again over time. So it happened that one day Billy’s friend Mikey heard about this unusual behavior, and decided to ask him about it on the playground. “You do know, don’t you, that a dime is worth twice as much as a nickel?” Mikey asked. “Oh yeah,” replied Billy, “and I also know that the first time I ever pick the dime will be the last time anyone makes that offer ever again!”
I won’t dwell on the narrative of this jest, because even in the most skillful hands what starts as analysis of humor can quickly end up as an autopsy, completed by pulling a sheet over it and rolling it into a cold dark drawer. Instead, I’ll concentrate on the soul, if you will, of this story. This is the lesson that, with the help of good light and a great bartender, transforms this mild diversion into a (somewhat) modern parable: If you accept moderate fortune now, your total reward is all the greater.
Yes, there’s probably a more concise, more elegant way to state that, though I won’t labor to find one at the risk of cutting it to the quick. (As Sydney J. Harris unironically put it, “Any philosophy that can be put in a nutshell probably belongs there.”) The idea has been around for centuries. The fabulist Æsop taught the lesson at least twice: once, in the tale of the goose that laid the golden eggs (in which an impatient man slaughters the goose for all the eggs inside, only to find nothing, and no more to come), and again in the example of the boy who got his fist stuck in a jar of filberts (at which point a passing adult told him that if he didn’t try to grab so many at once, he could actually extricate his hand and enjoy his snack). The idea of eternal reward coming only through moderation and sacrifice is fundamental to numerous religious doctrines. The human folly of greed and shortsightedness is a regular leitmotif of both Homer and Shakespeare, and since then in such popular venues as The Twilight Zone, Fantasy Island, and (I’d be willing to bet) Thomas the Tank Engine. It’s almost a cliché, and probably should have become one after the numerous times that not learning it prevented Gilligan & Co. from getting off that damn island.
Some people with whom I’ve shared this revelation have viewed it with a cynical eye. I think it was my brother Jay who said that it seems to rationalize getting away with more by staying under the radar, pointing out that embezzlers are often caught only when they get greedy and steal more than a moderate amount at one time. And I do acknowledge that the path followed by many of these tales could take a sudden turn and end up at a sign reading “Know your place, underling!” If there’s reasonable moderation, then there must also be unreasonable (immoderate?) moderation. How far do we go before “’Tis a Gift to be Simple” fades out and in its place we hear Langston Hughes asking about a dream deferred?
It’s the positive applications that have more meaning to me. Four decades ago in high school, I realized that I enjoyed (and craved) the company of female people. I learned by accident (and crippling shyness) that girls were far more willing to talk to me if I wasn’t adhering to the playbook of Every One a Potential Conquest. As much as popular culture–and my hormones–were telling me otherwise, I found that restrained respect was the better road; although it bypassed some possible girlfriends, it led me to numerous likely women friends. As years passed, I appreciated that all the more. And now: I have an intimate companion of three decades, and numerous women who smile and say hello when they see me, and everyone seems to be happy with the situation. (You might say that in this case, I got the dime and still collect the nickels.) I can understand the difference between short-term profits and long-term yields. I can appreciate that, by foregoing first-class airfares and four-star hotels, I can spend more time getting to know actual destinations. (Alas, this last example is almost entirely theoretical for me. I’ve never in my life flown first-class. Besides, I probably wouldn’t like it anyway—damn you, Æsop! You and your stupid fox and the stupid grapes…)
I said earlier that I hesitated to sum up this idea in brief. Fortunately, a decent job of this was done over a century ago by Ambrose Bierce, who along with Dostoyevsky and a few others sit at the “Authors I Enjoy Reading But Wouldn’t Want to Have Known Personally” table. In his Devil’s Dictionary, under the heading of “old saws fitted with new teeth,” he included this nugget:
“Half a loaf is better than a whole one if there is much else.”
That’s not a bad rendering, really. By definition, there is always much else in life, the universe, and everything. And if you stop at half a loaf, then there’s still room for something from the dessert menu. Or the filbert jar.
#moderation #filberts
