Life is not so bad if you have plenty of luck, a good physique

“Life is not so bad if you have plenty of luck, a good physique, and not too much imagination,” said Christopher Isherwood, with the dry wisdom of a man who had seen through both the glamour and the grief of the human condition. His words, at first, seem light — almost playful — yet beneath their surface runs a deep current of truth. For he speaks not of the body or fortune alone, but of the burden of imagination, and how the very gift that lifts the human spirit can also wound it most deeply. In these few words lies the tension of life itself: that to live simply is to suffer less, but to see too much, to feel too deeply, is to walk with both the gods and the ghosts of existence.

In the ancient way of thinking, luck was the favor of the unseen powers — a whisper from Fate herself. A man blessed with luck could walk through storms and never be struck; he could stumble and yet fall into opportunity. Luck, in Isherwood’s vision, shields one from the sharper edges of life. Then there is the good physique, the strength and health that make one a steady vessel through life’s currents. These are the gifts of nature and fortune, the shields against despair. But it is the last condition — “not too much imagination” — that reveals his hidden wisdom. For imagination, when vast and untamed, makes one sensitive to the sorrows of the world. It is the curse of those who dream too vividly, who see not only what is, but what could be — and therefore, must forever live between reality and longing.

Consider the story of Hamlet, the prince of Denmark, whose imagination was his crown and his curse. He could see every angle, every doubt, every moral shadow. Where a simpler man might have struck his uncle down and reclaimed the throne, Hamlet hesitated, trapped within the infinite corridors of thought. His imagination made him noble — for he sought truth — yet it also destroyed him, for he could never rest in action or in peace. Thus, Isherwood’s words echo through the centuries: too much imagination can make life unbearable, turning every joy into reflection, and every reflection into ache.

And yet, who would trade imagination for ignorance? The poet and the philosopher, the artist and the lover — all live in that perilous light where thought burns too brightly. Isherwood himself was such a soul. Living through wars, exile, and the upheavals of the twentieth century, he saw how the imaginative heart suffers — for it cannot look away from the world’s pain. It feels the agony of others as its own. And so he spoke not to condemn imagination, but to warn of its cost: that those who see life too clearly must learn to bear what they see, or risk breaking beneath the weight of it.

There is in his saying a paradox both ancient and profound. The strong body keeps us steady, the fortunate star protects us — but the imagination pierces through illusion and demands meaning. It asks: Why are we here? What is justice? What is love? Such questions are the fire of the human soul, but they also burn. Thus, Isherwood’s wisdom is bittersweet — for he tells us that simplicity is mercy, while depth is destiny. The man of little imagination may live content, but the man of great imagination lives awake — and to be awake in this world is to know both wonder and sorrow.

Let this be the teaching to those who hear: cultivate imagination, but temper it with discipline. Do not drown in thought, nor flee from it. Seek knowledge, but do not let it consume your peace. Train your body to be strong, your spirit to be steady, and your heart to bear the storms of vision. For the goal is not to live without imagination, but to rule it, as a charioteer rules a wild horse — guiding its power, not crushed beneath its hooves.

So, my friends, if you are blessed with luck, be grateful. If you are gifted with strength, preserve it. But if you are burdened — or blessed — with imagination, walk carefully. Build within yourself both silence and courage. Learn to rest the mind that never sleeps. And when your visions trouble you, remember: to imagine is to share in the divine — to see beyond the veil of the ordinary. Yet even the gods, weary from creation, must sometimes rest. So let your imagination serve you, not rule you — and life, though imperfect, will no longer be “so bad,” but rich, profound, and beautifully real.