One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the

The words of Bertrand Russell—“One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one's work is terribly important.”—speak with the sharp clarity of a philosopher who had seen the burdens of intellect and the folly of pride weigh heavily upon humanity. At first, his words seem paradoxical: how could believing one’s work is important be a sign of weakness? Yet beneath the paradox lies a deep truth—that when a man clings too tightly to his labors, when he magnifies their weight until they seem the axis upon which the world turns, he endangers both his health and his soul.

Russell’s insight is rooted in the ancient wisdom that warned against hubris, the excess of pride that blinds the spirit. To believe that one’s work is not simply meaningful, but terribly important, is to assume that the world would falter without it, that one’s own shoulders must carry the burden of creation, justice, or progress. But the world has endured the passing of empires and the silence of kings; it will endure beyond the span of any man’s efforts. The one who forgets this truth courts despair, for no human can sustain the weight of believing their task is indispensable.

The ancients saw this tragedy unfold in the myth of Atlas, who bore the heavens upon his back. Though he was a Titan of immense strength, even Atlas groaned beneath the endless burden. His suffering is a warning: when we elevate our work beyond proportion, we chain ourselves to an unbearable weight. Russell’s words are the modern echo of that myth, reminding us that to cling with desperate seriousness to our labors is to risk collapse.

History too gives testimony. Consider the fate of Charles Darwin, who labored so intensely on his theory of evolution that the strain brought upon him years of illness. Though his work reshaped the world, his belief in its crushing importance consumed his body. Contrast him with Marcus Aurelius, who, though emperor of Rome, wrote in his Meditations that one should act with dignity but remember always the vastness of time: “Alexander the Great and his mule-driver both died, and the same thing happened to both.” To take one’s work seriously is noble; to believe it the center of the universe is madness.

The meaning of Russell’s teaching is not to dismiss work, but to restore perspective. Our labor matters, yes, but it must not consume us. To think one’s efforts “terribly important” is to inflate the ego and to invite exhaustion. Work should be meaningful but not all-defining, diligent but not desperate. For the man who clings too tightly to his task finds himself enslaved by it, and slavery of the mind leads only to ruin.

For us, the lesson is profound: balance is the guardian of sanity. Do your work with care, but release the illusion that the fate of the world rests upon your desk. Value your contribution, but remember that others labor too, and that time itself is larger than any single achievement. To know this is to find peace in the midst of striving, and to protect the soul from the torment of perfectionism and pride.

The practical action is this: pause in your labors, and remind yourself that rest is not betrayal but wisdom. Step back, and see your work not as the weight of the cosmos, but as one thread in the great tapestry of life. Share the burden with others, and do not confuse diligence with indispensability. Cultivate humility and perspective, for these are the shields that guard against the breakdown of the spirit.

Thus, let this wisdom be passed down: work is a duty, but it is not destiny. The belief that one’s work is terribly important is a poison disguised as virtue, leading to exhaustion and despair. As Russell teaches, true strength lies not in inflating the weight of our tasks, but in seeing them in proportion, and in living with humility, balance, and peace. For in this way, a man preserves both his mind and his soul, and walks the path of endurance.