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royalties behind for his wife, he put a piece of paper
into a typewriter and began writing. He had no certainty
that he would even be published, but he couldn’t think
of anything else to do.
“It was January of 1960,” he said, “and according to
the prognosis, I had a winter and spring and summer to
live through, and would die with the fall of the leaf.”
In that time Burgess wrote energetically, finishing
five and a half novels before the year was through—
(very nearly the entire lifetime output of E.M. Forster,
and almost twice that of J.D. Salinger.)
But Burgess did not die. His cancer had gone into
remission and then disappeared altogether. In his long
and full life as a novelist (he is best known for A Clock-
work Orange), he wrote more than 70 books, but with-
out the death sentence from cancer, he may not have
written at all.
Many of us are like Anthony Burgess, hiding great-
ness inside, waiting for some external emergency to
bring it out. I believe that’s why my father and many
people of his generation speak so fondly about World
War II. During the war, they lived in a state of emer-
gency that brought out the best in them.
If we don’t pay attention to this phenomenon—how
crisis inspires our best efforts—we tend to brainlessly
create a life based on comfort. We try to design easier
and easier ways to live, so that we won’t be surprised
or challenged by anything.
People who get the knack of self-motivation can
reverse this process and get that wonderful “World
War II” sense of vitality into their lives. Athletes do it
constantly.
“How do you feel about tonight’s game with the Trail
Blazers?” a reporter once asked basketball star Kobe