The Kingdom of Moderation and the Near-Perfect Plan

I used to muse that I’d love to become a subject of some kingdom of moderation: a place fictitious enough to be the object of free-flowing dreams, free even from the hope of fulfilment. Quite obviously, such a realm could never come to be in the real world, for if it stood any chance of materialisation, it would immediately face the rise of countless infuriated despisers of moderation, who would find it an assault on their liberties.

Nonetheless, I continue to preach its glory, advising moderation to everyone, and thus also to you, dear reader. Moderation allows you to keep your balance and a level head, and protects you from leaning to any dangerous side. It is the opposite of excess. When young people ask me about traits that will come handy in business, I point to moderation. I’ve seen more than enough promising business careers that crashed because people took things too far. Because somebody believed too much in their strength, in their power. And vice versa: what a plethora of magnificent initiatives never came to be for want of self-confidence. In either case, excess was the root of failure.

Plan with moderation, use with moderation.

Sometimes something that is good is better left as good as it is, sparing the effort to improve it and bear unnecessary risks.

Overdoing something that is good is at times a step off the cliff.

Let us not take madness for courage, as an acquaintance of mine says, explaining why he has never opposed his wife’s decisions.

Overdoing is always easy. Too much of a good thing really means too much.

I remember the final exam in one of the so-called political subjects. They were obligatory while I was a student and Poland was still a communist country. I didn’t have much mind to devote my time to studying the foundations of Marxism, and I found the aggravation of the class struggle a distant echo of the story of the iron wolf used to scare children.

I quite naturally considered that such tall stories belong in their proper place, which is in kindergartens. However, an obligation remained an obligation, and there was no way to circumvent the aforementioned examination.

Now how do you concentrate diligently on the so-called “leading role of the Communist Party”, if any job or activity looming on the horizon is by far better and more attractive than the tedious poring over political textbooks? But still, I knew a few things and had read a little. Enough to pass, I concluded. As I was keen to receive a good grade, however, I decided to raise the bar and opted to play it smart – in other words, I chose to outsmart the system.

I knew that this particular oral examination was taken in threes. My way of thinking was as follows: if my two unfortunate companions – comrades, to use the lingo required for the exam – were not as well prepared as I was, my star would have a chance to shine brightly against their bleak performance, and result in bagging a dazzling grade. With my fellow examinees not mumbling a word, my answer would simply have to thrill the examiner. Was the simplicity of my plan not a gleam of genius? All it took was to get working and find the right partners.

I did my reconnaissance among my fellow students. One had already been revising for a fortnight, another swore he wouldn’t sleep a wink in the nights to come – and that for reasons absolutely different from the usual ones, for, as he convincingly claimed, an exam is more important than social life. A fact’s a fact, and I had no reasons to doubt their sincerity. The queue of candidates to join me for the exam was shortening by the hour. Theoretically flawless, my plan was slowly crumbling, and if not for a chance occurrence, it would have collapsed like the proverbial house of the cards used as exam papers. Chance led me to none other than the two ideal candidates, and that in front of the college. The first was caught up in the football league and paying little heed to the approaching exam, while the other happened to be in love, manifested in dreamy eyes, general paleness, and physical revulsion of reading anything, save perhaps for love letters. On top of that, he was the biggest slacker in the whole university, who’d already killed off his close and more distant family at least twice to secure extensions for examination deadlines. It puzzles me to this day how these two appeared before my eyes precisely when I was about to forsake all hope and enter the hall of horror free from fear, but also from any chance for a gold medal. They absolutely didn’t mind that all three of us would go and face the professor together. Once we’d agreed, I was swelling with pride. My plan was coming to fulfilment, point by point, with Swiss precision. But then something I’d never imagined happened. The other two went first, and the professor concluded that if these miserable wretches couldn’t even bring themselves to offer him something with a noun and verb even remotely relevant to the questions asked, the third fellow in the trio must be made of a similar stock, and it made no sense to ask him anything but his last name. The three of us were the first through the door. Our grade books flew out in our wake. And you can guess what marks gave them wings. You can also guess which of the trio was consumed by a sense of utter heart-breaking injustice. However, what was worse was the grievance I held against myself.

I overdid it. I didn’t entertain the moderation that is so much needed even in being sly. And it was at this moment that the kingdom mentioned in the title arose in my imagination.