In its heyday, the car was an expression of technical flair and

Hear now, O child of progress and time, the words of Martin Jacques, a thinker of modern civilization, who declared: “In its heyday, the car was an expression of technical flair and design genius: the original Mini, the Beetle, the 2CV, and the Fiat 500 were all, in their various ways, inspired incarnations of functionality.” In these words, he honors an age when invention was not vanity, but vision — when the craftsman’s hand and the engineer’s mind worked in harmony to serve both beauty and purpose. Jacques speaks not merely of machines, but of an era’s spirit — a time when humanity built not for excess, but for excellence.

Martin Jacques, historian, journalist, and philosopher of modernity, wrote often about the decline of Western innovation and the shifting soul of industry. In this reflection, he speaks of the golden age of the automobile, when design was guided by function, not greed. The Mini, the Beetle, the Citroën 2CV, and the Fiat 500 were not born from corporate vanity but from human need — from the yearning to move, to explore, to live with grace within the means of the ordinary man. These creations were poetry wrought in steel and glass — proof that simplicity, when shaped by genius, can transcend even the most elaborate artifice.

Each of these machines, in its time, became more than a vehicle; it became a symbol. The Mini, born in post-war Britain, was small yet noble — a defiance against scarcity, a triumph of ingenuity in an age of fuel rationing. The Volkswagen Beetle, emerging from the ashes of a shattered Germany, became the people’s car, humble and enduring, its rounded body an emblem of rebirth. The French 2CV, designed to carry farmers across rough fields with baskets of eggs unbroken, reflected the genius of designing for life itself — form serving function, and function ennobled by thought. And the Fiat 500, tiny yet joyful, carried the heart of Italy into motion, a declaration that beauty and efficiency could coexist in perfect proportion.

Jacques, in naming these marvels, reminds us that design, at its truest, is an act of empathy. The engineer of old did not merely calculate; he imagined the needs of others. He shaped not just metal, but meaning. The craftsman’s pride lay in creating something enduring and honest — a union of art and purpose, where beauty was born of necessity. The ancients too knew this truth: the stonemason who built a bridge across a river did so not for glory, but so that life could flow more freely. The perfection of such works comes not from ornament, but from the purity of their intention.

But in our own age, Jacques laments, that spirit has dimmed. The car, once an expression of functional elegance, has become swollen with excess — a monument to luxury, not labor. Where once the craftsman sought harmony, now the market demands spectacle. The simplicity that once inspired has been replaced by a race for dominance, and the quiet dignity of design has been drowned in noise. Yet in his mourning lies a call — a call to remember that greatness is not measured by grandeur, but by grace.

Consider the tale of Soichiro Honda, founder of the Honda Motor Company. In post-war Japan, he began with nothing — scraps of engines, fragments of steel, and a dream of mobility for the common people. His first creations were small and unassuming, yet they changed lives. He believed that machines should serve humanity, not rule it. Like the artisans of old, he pursued functionality with soul, creating engines that were not only efficient but alive with purpose. His legacy, like those of the Mini or the 2CV, stands as proof that true innovation begins not in wealth, but in humility and imagination.

Thus, the teaching of Martin Jacques becomes clear: the truest works of man are those that serve life, not ego. Whether we build machines, write words, or shape our days, we must strive for meaning through purpose, for beauty through restraint. The artist, the engineer, the thinker — all are bound by the same sacred law: that what we create should endure not because it dazzles, but because it works, because it helps, because it lives.

And so, O listener, let this wisdom settle deep in your heart: do not measure your work by how loud it speaks, but by how quietly it serves. Build as those early masters built — with reverence for function, with devotion to clarity, and with love for the human spirit that will one day use what you have made. For in every true creation, as Jacques reminds us, there lies not only skill, but soul — and that soul, when shaped with care, will stand against time, as even steel and stone must one day yield to it.