Nixon had lists upon lists upon lists. They were tragic lists

Peter Morgan once observed with somber gravity: “Nixon had lists upon lists upon lists. They were tragic lists saying, 'Smile more,' or, 'Be stronger - remember, it is your job to spiritually uplift the nation.' This understanding of his limitations is heartbreaking.” Within these words lies a profound meditation on the burdens of leadership, the fragility of human nature, and the sorrow of a man who sought to script his soul. The lists were not mere reminders, but confessions of weakness—desperate attempts to craft an image he could never embody.

The ancients would see in this the tragic figure of a man caught between appearance and essence. A ruler, they believed, must possess virtus—a harmony of inner strength and outer action. When one is truly strong, one does not need to command oneself to “be stronger.” When one’s heart naturally shines with joy, one does not need to write “smile more” upon parchment. Nixon’s lists, as Morgan says, reveal a man painfully aware of his own fractures, trying to mend them not by transformation but by rehearsal. It is this awareness without remedy that rends the heart.

History provides echoes of this sorrow. Consider Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor, who filled his Meditations with reminders to himself: to be patient, to accept death, to resist anger. But Marcus’s words were not hollow—they arose from a lifetime of practice, and his self-exhortations were aligned with virtue already lived. Nixon’s lists, by contrast, resemble not the stoic’s meditation but the desperate notes of an actor preparing for a role he did not believe he could play. And so his failure was not in writing the lists, but in being enslaved to them.

The tragedy is sharpened by the weight of his office. For as Morgan reminds us, Nixon saw it as his duty to “spiritually uplift the nation.” This is a heavy crown for any mortal, for no man can bear the souls of millions without breaking. Yet great leaders throughout history have risen to this challenge, not by pretense but by embodying virtues authentically. Abraham Lincoln, weary and sorrowful, did not tell himself to smile more; he let his compassion and humor shine even in his darkest days. His strength was not scripted—it was lived. Nixon’s struggle shows the chasm between knowing what ought to be done and being able to do it.

This story is not about Nixon alone—it is the human condition. How often do we make lists in our hearts, whispering, “Be kinder. Be braver. Be patient. Smile more”? These are noble aims, but when they are written without the labor of the soul, they become chains of self-reproach. The heartbreak comes when we know our weaknesses but do not undertake the inner transformation required to heal them. It is not the list that saves us, but the daily practice of truth until the virtue becomes our nature.

And yet, even in this tragedy, there is something deeply human to honor. To write such lists is to confess one’s desire for goodness, to acknowledge one’s flaws, to yearn for a better self. The lists reveal that Nixon, despite his failings, knew the sacred duty of leadership and longed to rise to it. The heartbreak is that longing alone is not enough; without inner change, longing dissolves into regret.

So, my children, let this be your lesson: do not merely write lists of what you wish to be—become them. Do not remind yourself endlessly to smile, but cultivate joy within, and the smile will come. Do not command yourself to be strong, but discipline your heart, and strength will flow naturally. For when the moment of trial comes, you will not need lists; your soul itself will be your guide. And then, unlike Nixon, you will not be remembered for tragic reminders of what you could not become, but for the living proof of virtues embodied in the course of your days.