I believe that there is one story in the world, and only one, that has frightened and inspired us. Humans are caught - in their lives, in their thoughts, in their hungers and ambitions, in their avarice and cruelty, and in their kindness and generosity too - in a net of good and evil. I think this is the only story we have and that it occurs on all levels of feeling and intelligence.
Herodotus, in the Persian War, tells a story of how Croesus, the richest and most-favored king of his time, asked Solon the Athenian a leading question. He would not have asked it if he had not been worried about the answer. “Who,” he asked, “is the luckiest person in the world?” He must have been eaten with doubt and hungry for reassurance. Solon told him of three lucky people in old times. And Croesus more than likely did not listen, so anxious was he about himself. And when Solon did not mention him, Croesus was forced to say, “Do you not consider me lucky?”
Solon did not hesitate in his answer. “How can I tell?” he said. “You aren’t dead yet.”
When a man dies - if he has had wealth and influence - the question is still there: Was his life good or evil? Envies are gone, and the measuring stick is: "Was he loved or hated? Is his death felt as a loss, or does joy come of it?"
I remember clearly the deaths of three men. One was the richest man of the century, who, having clawed his way to wealth through the souls and bodies of men, spent years trying to buy back love. When he died, many received the news with pleasure. Several said, "Thank God that son of a bitch is dead."
Then there was a man, smart as Satan, knowing all too well every aspect of human weakness and wickedness, used his knowledge to warp men, to buy men, to bribe and threaten. When he died the nation rang with praise and, just beneath, with gladness.
There was a third man, whose life was devoted to making men brave and dignified and good in a time when they were poor and frightened, and when ugly forces were loose in the world to utilize their fears. When he died, the people burst into tears, and their minds wailed, "What can we do now? How can we go on without him?"
In uncertainty, I am certain that underneath their frailty, men want to be good and loved. Indeed, most of their vices are attempted shortcuts to love. When a man dies, if he dies unloved, his life must be a failure to him and his dying a cold horror. We should try so to live that our death brings no pleasure to the world.
We have only one story. All novels, all poetry, are built on the neverending contest in ourselves of good and evil. Evil must constantly respawn, while good, while virtue, is immortal. Vice has always a fresh, young face, while virtue is venerable as nothing else in the world is.