Being Human: Readings from the President's Council on Bioethics
Chapter 5: Many Stages, One Life
In the previous chapter we saw that we are embodied beings.
But that is not our whole story. We are also embodied beings
living in time and changing continuously as it passes. The
physical changes we undergo are all too easy to see. But what
becomes of our noncorporeal identities as our bodies age and
our experiences accumulate? How do our minds develop, from
cradle to grave? In what ways do we remain the same?
And what are we to make of the complete span of a human
life, from beginning to end? Does it tell a coherent story?
Does it advance? What meaning is to be found in its distinctive
shape? Though each life is different, what might each individual’s
movement through childhood, youth, maturity, and old age share
with every other’s?
Our readings in this chapter begin with three attempts to
describe the progress of a life from its beginning, or near
its beginning, to its end. In a celebrated passage from The
Rhetoric, Aristotle considers the differences between
youth, old age, and manhood in its prime. Francis Bacon compares
two of these stages in “On Youth and Old Age,” and William
Shakespeare, in a famous speech, traces the seven “acts” of
a man’s life.
The series of readings that follows presents portraits of
various life stages. It begins with childhood, as seen by
J. M. Barrie in his great children’s novel, Peter Pan.
Next, in the first of several excerpts from Tolstoy’s War
and Peace, we are introduced to a youth, Nicholas, and
two of his friends. In the following excerpt, we meet Nicholas
again, this time as a mature man. An excerpt from Thomas Mann’s
Buddenbrooks then shows us another man in his prime,
but one who feels his power and vitality beginning to slip.
We then return to War and Peace to meet an old woman
who is living out her last days in the care of her children.
What might it mean to be sensible of this inexorable trajectory?
An excerpt from novelist Vladimir Nabokov’s memoir Speak,
Memory considers the significance of our awareness of
Not every life is fully played out, from beginning to shapely
end. Our next reading, Robert Louis Stevenson’s “Ordered South,”
offers two views—one by a youth, and one by the same man in
his middle years—of a life cut short by mortal illness. We
follow this with an excerpt from Willa Cather’s The Professor’s
House, in which we see that not only one’s physical health,
but one’s mental state as well, can confound the expected
course of a life.
We conclude with “Life,” a story by Liam O’Flaherty about
the pe-culiar and powerful bond between a new-born boy and
his old and demented grandfather. What is the source of this
bond? What unites the beginning of life with its end?
by J. M. Barrie
J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan is well known
as a children’s novel. To the adult reader, though, it has
much to teach about the movement of a life from childhood
to adulthood to parenthood, and about our eventual replacement
by our children. By offering a particularly rich account
of the distinctive character of childhood, Peter Pan reminds
adults of a world no longer accessible to them.
Mr. and Mrs. Darling live at No. 14
with their children, Wendy, John, and Michael, and the children’s
nurse, Nana, a dog. “There never was a simpler happier family,”
Barrie tells us, “until the coming of Peter Pan,” the magical
boy who refuses to grow up.
The first of the two excerpts below
describes Peter’s appearance at No. 14. Before he arrives,
though, Mrs. Darling finds a portent that he will come in
her children’s minds, which she “tidies up” at night while
they sleep. A child’s mind, Barrie tells us, is an island,
called the Neverland, where Peter lives (with the “lost
boys,” who are there because they have no mothers).
After Peter’s arrival, in a part of
the story not reproduced here, he teaches the children to
fly and takes them away with him to the Neverland, leaving
their parents bereft. In the Neverland, Wendy acts as his
mother, and plans to become his wife.
The second excerpt consists of the
concluding pages of the book. The children have returned
and Mr. and Mrs. Darling have adopted the lost boys. Peter,
though, refuses to be adopted. Instead, he goes back to
the Neverland, arranging to return for Wendy once each year.
But Peter, who has no sense of time and little memory, forgets
to return, and Wendy and the boys grow up.
After a long while Peter does return,
and finds Wendy an adult with a daughter of her own. When
he sees what has become of her he feels fear and pain, emotions
almost unknown to him. He recovers, though, when he discovers
that Wendy’s daughter can now take her mother’s place. She—and
also her daughters after her—fly away to the Neverland and
become the keepers of his stories.
What is the Neverland? Why are there
no parents there? What is the meaning of Mrs. Darling’s
effort to “tidy up” her children’s minds? Can she, or any
mother, succeed? Should she even try?
Peter’s arrival terrifies Mrs. Darling.
Why do adults fear the approach of the Neverland, though
children do not? Are adults right to fear it?
Why has Peter no sense of time, and
so little memory? What effect does this have on his character?
Why is he afraid when he sees Wendy fully grown?
Can all children fly? Is it true that
only children can fly? Is childhood necessarily age-specific?
Mrs. Darling first heard of Peter when she was tidying up
her children’s minds. It is the nightly custom of every good
mother after her children are asleep to rummage in their minds
and put things straight for next morning, repacking into their
proper places the many articles that have wandered during
the day. If you could keep awake (but of course you can’t)
you would see your own mother doing this, and you would find
it very interesting to watch her. It is quite like tidying
up drawers. You would see her on her knees, I expect, lingering
humorously over some of your contents, wondering where on
earth you had picked this thing up, making discoveries sweet
and not so sweet, pressing this to her cheek as if it were
as nice as a kitten, and hurriedly stowing that out of sight.
When you wake in the morning, the naughtiness and evil passions
with which you went to bed have been folded up small and placed
at the bottom of your mind; and on the top, beautifully aired,
are spread out your prettier thoughts, ready for you to put
I don’t know whether you have ever seen a map of a person’s
mind. Doctors sometimes draw maps of other parts of you, and
your own map can become intensely interesting, but catch them
trying to draw a map of a child’s mind, which is not only
confused, but keeps going round all the time. There are zigzag
lines on it, just like your temperature on a card, and these
are probably roads in the island; for the Neverland is always
more or less an island, with astonishing splashes of colour
here and there, and coral reefs and rakish-looking craft in
the offing, and savages and lonely lairs, and gnomes who are
mostly tailors, and caves through which a river runs, and
princes with six elder brothers, and a hut fast going to decay,
and one very small old lady with a hooked nose. It would be
an easy map if that were all; but there is also first day
at school, religion, fathers, the round pond, needlework,
murders, hangings, verbs that take the dative, chocolate pudding
day, getting into braces, say ninety-nine, three-pence for
pulling out your tooth yourself, and so on; and either these
are part of the island or they are another map showing through,
and it is all rather confusing, especially as nothing will
Of course the Neverlands vary a good deal. John’s, for instance,
had a lagoon with flamingoes flying over it at which John
was shooting, while Michael, who was very small, had a flamingo
with lagoons flying over it. John lived in a boat turned upside
down on the sands, Michael in a wigwam, Wendy in a house of
leaves deftly sewn together. John had no friends, Michael
had friends at night, Wendy had a pet wolf forsaken by its
parents; but on the whole the Neverlands have a family resemblance,
and if they stood in a row you could say of them that they
have each other’s nose, and so forth. On these magic shores
children at play are forever beaching their coracles. We too
have been there; we can still hear the sound of the surf,
though we shall land no more.
Of all delectable islands the Neverland is the snuggest
and most compact; not large and sprawly, you know, with tedious
distance between one adventure and another, but nicely crammed.
When you play at it by day with the chairs and table-cloth,
it is not in the least alarming, but in the two minutes before
you go to sleep it becomes very nearly real. That is why there
Occasionally in her travels through her children’s minds
Mrs. Darling found things she could not understand, and of
these quite the most perplexing was the word Peter. She knew
of no Peter, and yet he was here and there in John and Michael’s
minds, while Wendy’s began to be scrawled all over with him.
The name stood out in bolder letters than any of the other
words, and as Mrs. Darling gazed she felt that it had an oddly
“Yes, he is rather cocky,” Wendy admitted with regret. Her
mother had been questioning her.
“But who is he, my pet?”
“He is Peter Pan, you know, mother.”
At first Mrs. Darling did not know, but after thinking back
into her childhood she just remembered a Peter Pan who was
said to live with the fairies. There were odd stories about
him; as that when children died he went part of the way with
them, so that they should not be frightened. She had believed
in him at the time, but now that she was married and full
of sense she quite doubted whether there was any such person.
“Besides,” she said to Wendy, “he would be grown up by this
“Oh no, he isn’t grown up,” Wendy assured her confidently,
“and he is just my size.” She meant that he was her size in
both mind and body; she didn’t know how she knew it, she just
Mrs. Darling consulted Mr. Darling, but he smiled pooh-pooh.
“Mark my words,” he said, “it is some nonsense Nana has been
putting into their heads; just the sort of idea a dog would
have. Leave it alone, and it will blow over.”
But it would not blow over; and soon the troublesome boy
gave Mrs. Darling quite a shock.
Children have the strangest adventures without being troubled
by them. For instance, they may remember to mention, a week
after the event happened, that when they were in the wood
they met their dead father and had a game with him. It was
in this casual way that Wendy one morning made a disquieting
revelation. Some leaves of a tree had been found on the nursery
floor, which certainly were not there when the children went
to bed, and Mrs. Darling was puzzling over them when Wendy
said with a tolerant smile:
“I do believe it is that Peter again!”
“Whatever do you mean, Wendy?”
“It is so naughty of him not to wipe,” Wendy said, sighing.
She was a tidy child.
She explained in quite a matter-of-fact way that she thought
Peter sometimes came to the nursery in the night and sat on
the foot of her bed and played on his pipes to her. Unfortunately
she never woke, so she didn’t know how she knew, she just
“What nonsense you talk, precious. No one can get into the
house without knocking.”
“I think he comes in by the window,” she said.
“My love, it is three floors up.”
“Were not the leaves at the foot of the window, mother?”
It was quite true; the leaves had been found very near the
Mrs. Darling did not know what to think, for it all seemed
so natural to Wendy that you could not dismiss it by saying
she had been dreaming.
“My child,” the mother cried, “why did you not tell me of
“I forgot,” said Wendy lightly. She was in a hurry to get
Oh, surely she must have been dreaming.
But, on the other hand, there were the leaves. Mrs. Darling
examined them carefully; they were skeleton leaves, but she
was sure they did not come from any tree that grew in England.
She crawled about the floor, peering at it with a candle for
marks of a strange foot. She rattled the poker up the chimney
and tapped the walls. She let down a tape from the window
to the pavement, and it was a sheer drop of thirty feet, without
so much as a spout to climb up by.
Certainly Wendy had been dreaming.
But Wendy had not been dreaming, as the very next night
showed, the night on which the extraordinary adventures of
these children may be said to have begun.
On the night we speak of all the children were once more
in bed. It happened to be Nana’s evening off, and Mrs. Darling
had bathed them and sung to them till one by one they had
let go her hand and slid away into the land of sleep.
All were looking so safe and cosy that she smiled at her
fears now and sat down tranquilly by the fire to sew.
It was something for Michael, who on his birthday was getting
into shirts. The fire was warm, however, and the nursery dimly
lit by three night-lights, and presently the sewing lay on
Mrs. Darling’s lap. Then her head nodded, oh, so gracefully.
She was asleep. Look at the four of them, Wendy and Michael
over there, John here, and Mrs. Darling by the fire. There
should have been a fourth night-light.
While she slept she had a dream. She dreamt that the Neverland
had come too near and that a strange boy had broken through
from it. He did not alarm her, for she thought she had seen
him before in the faces of many women who have no children.
Perhaps he is to be found in the faces of some mothers also.
But in her dream he had rent the film that obscures the Neverland,
and she saw Wendy and John and Michael peeping through the
The dream by itself would have been a trifle, but while
she was dreaming the window of the nursery blew open, and
a boy did drop on the floor. He was accompanied by a strange
light, no bigger than your fist, which darted about the room
like a living thing; and I think it must have been this light
that wakened Mrs. Darling.
She started up with a cry, and saw the boy, and somehow
she knew at once that he was Peter Pan. If you or I or Wendy
had been there we should have seen that he was very like Mrs.
Darling’s kiss. He was a lovely boy, clad in skeleton leaves
and the juices that ooze out of trees; but the most entrancing
thing about him was that he had all his first teeth. When
he saw she was a grown-up, he gnashed the little pearls at
The children have returned from the Neverland with Peter
and the lost boys. The lost boys have been adopted by the
Darlings, but Peter refuses to be adopted and to grow up to
be a man. Instead, he pleads with Wendy to return with him
to the Neverland, to live in a little house in the treetops.
“Well, then, come with me to the little house.”
“May I, mummy?”
“Certainly not. I have got you home again, and I mean to
“But he does so need a mother.”
“So do you, my love.”
“Oh, all right,” Peter said, as if he had asked her from
politeness merely; but Mrs. Darling saw his mouth twitch,
and she made this handsome offer: to let Wendy go to him for
a week every year to do his spring cleaning. Wendy would have
preferred a more permanent arrangement; and it seemed to her
that spring would be long in coming; but this promise sent
Peter away quite gay again. He had no sense of time, and was
so full of adventures that all I have told you about him is
only a halfpenny-worth of them. I suppose it was because Wendy
knew this that her last words to him were these rather plaintive
“You won’t forget me, Peter, will you, before spring-cleaning
Of course Peter promised; and then he flew away. He took
Mrs. Darling’s kiss with him. The kiss that had been for no
one else Peter took quite easily. Funny. But she seemed satisfied.
Of course all the boys went to school; and most of them
got into Class III, but Slightly was put first into Class
IV and then into Class V. Class I is the top class. Before
they had attended school a week they saw what goats they had
been not to remain on the island; but it was too late now,
and soon they settled down to being as ordinary as you or
me or Jenkins minor. It is sad to have to say that the power
to fly gradually left them. At first Nana tied their feet
to the bed-posts so that they should not fly away in the night;
and one of their diversions by day was to pretend to fall
off ‘buses; but by and by they ceased to tug at their bonds
in bed, and found that they hurt themselves when they let
go of the ‘bus. In time they could not even fly after their
hats. Want of practice, they called it; but what it really
meant was that they no longer believed.
Michael believed longer than the other boys, though they
jeered at him; so he was with Wendy when Peter came for her
at the end of the first year. She flew away with Peter in
the frock she had woven from leaves and berries in the Neverland,
and her one fear was that he might notice how short it had
become; but he never noticed, he had so much to say about
She had looked forward to thrilling talks with him about
old times, but new adventures had crowded the old ones from
“Who is Captain Hook?” he asked with interest when she spoke
of the arch enemy.
“Don’t you remember,” she asked, amazed, “how you killed
him and saved all our lives?”
“I forget them after I kill them,” he replied carelessly.
When she expressed a doubtful hope that Tinker Bell would
be glad to see her he said, “Who is Tinker Bell?”
“O Peter,” she said, shocked; but even when she explained
he could not remember.
“There are such a lot of them,” he said. “I expect she is
I expect he was right, for fairies don’t live long, but
they are so little that a short time seems a good while to
Wendy was pained too to find that the past year was but
as yesterday to Peter; it had seemed such a long year of waiting
to her. But he was exactly as fascinating as ever, and they
had a lovely spring-cleaning in the little house on the tree
Next year he did not come for her. She waited in a new frock
because the old one simply would not meet; but he never came.
“Perhaps he is ill,” Michael said.
“You know he is never ill.”
Michael came close to her and whispered, with a shiver,
“Perhaps there is no such person, Wendy!” and then Wendy would
have cried if Michael had not been crying.
Peter came next spring cleaning; and the strange thing was
that he never knew he had missed a year.
That was the last time the girl Wendy ever saw him. For
a little longer she tried for his sake not to have growing
pains; and she felt she was untrue to him when she got a prize
for general knowledge. But the years came and went without
bringing the careless boy; and when they met again Wendy was
a married woman, and Peter was no more to her than a little
dust in the box in which she had kept her toys. Wendy was
grown up. You need not be sorry for her. She was one of the
kind that likes to grow up. In the end she grew up of her
own free will a day quicker than other girls.
All the boys were grown up and done for by this time; so
it is scarcely worth while saying anything more about them.
You may see the twins and Nibs and Curly any day going to
an office, each carrying a little bag and an umbrella. Michael
is an engine-driver. Slightly married a lady of title, and
so he became a lord. You see that judge in a wig coming out
at the iron door? That used to be Tootles. The bearded man
who doesn’t know any story to tell his children was once John.
Wendy was married in white with a pink sash. It is strange
to think that Peter did not alight in the church and forbid
Years rolled on again, and Wendy had a daughter. This ought
not to be written in ink but in a golden splash.
She was called Jane, and always had an odd inquiring look,
as if from the moment she arrived on the mainland she wanted
to ask questions. When she was old enough to ask them they
were mostly about Peter Pan. She loved to hear of Peter, and
Wendy told her all she could remember in the very nursery
from which the famous flight had taken place. It was Jane’s
nursery now, for her father had bought it at the three per
cents. from Wendy’s father, who was no longer fond of stairs.
Mrs. Darling was now dead and forgotten.
There were only two beds in the nursery now, Jane’s and
her nurse’s; and there was no kennel, for Nana also had passed
away. She died of old age, and at the end she had been rather
difficult to get on with; being very firmly convinced that
no one knew how to look after children except herself.
Once a week Jane’s nurse had her evening off; and then it
was Wendy’s part to put Jane to bed. That was the time for
stories. It was Jane’s invention to raise the sheet over her
mother’s head and her own, thus making a tent, and in the
awful darkness to whisper:
“What do we see now?”
“I don’t think I see anything to-night,” says Wendy, with
a feeling that if Nana were here she would object to further
“Yes, you do,” says Jane, “you see when you were a little
“That is a long time ago, sweetheart,” says Wendy. “Ah me,
how time flies!”
“Does it fly,” asks the artful child, “the way you flew
when you were a little girl?”
“The way I flew! Do you know, Jane, I sometimes wonder whether
I ever did really fly.”
“Yes, you did.”
“The dear old days when I could fly!”
“Why can’t you fly now, mother?”
“Because I am grown up, dearest. When people grow up they
forget the way.”
“Why do they forget the way?”
“Because they are no longer gay and innocent and heartless.
It is only the gay and innocent and heartless who can fly.”
“What is gay and innocent and heartless? I do wish I was
gay and innocent and heartless.”
Or perhaps Wendy admits that she does see something.
“I do believe,” she says, “that it is this nursery.”
“I do believe it is,” says Jane. “Go on.”
They are now embarked on the great adventure of the night
when Peter flew in looking for his shadow.
“The foolish fellow,” says Wendy, “tried to stick it on
with soap, and when he could not he cried, and that woke me,
and I sewed it on for him.”
“You have missed a bit,” interrupts Jane, who now knows
the story better than her mother. “When you saw him sitting
on the floor crying, what did you say?”
“I sat up in bed and I said, ‘Boy, why are you crying?’”
“Yes, that was it,” says Jane, with a big breath.
“And then he flew us all away to the Neverland and the fairies
and the pirates and the redskins and the mermaids’ lagoon,
and the home under the ground, and the little house.”
“Yes! which did you like best of all?”
“I think I liked the home under the ground best of all.”
“Yes, so do I. What was the last thing Peter ever said to
“The last thing he ever said to me was, ‘Just always be
waiting for me, and then some night you will hear me crowing.’
“But, alas, he forgot all about me.” Wendy said it with
a smile. She was as grown up as that.
“What did his crow sound like?” Jane asked one evening.
“It was like this,” Wendy said, trying to imitate Peter’s
“No, it wasn’t,” Jane said gravely, “it was like this;”
and she did it ever so much better than her mother.
Wendy was a little startled. “My darling, how can you know?”
“I often hear it when I am sleeping,” Jane said.
“Ah yes, many girls hear it when they are sleeping, but
I was the only one who heard it awake.”
“Lucky you,” said Jane.
And then one night came the tragedy. It was the spring of
the year, and the story had been told for the night, and Jane
was now asleep in her bed. Wendy was sitting on the floor,
very close to the fire, so as to see to darn, for there was
no other light in the nursery; and while she sat darning she
heard a crow. Then the window blew open as of old, and Peter
dropped on the floor.
He was exactly the same as ever, and Wendy saw at once that
he still had all his first teeth.
He was a little boy, and she was grown up. She huddled by
the fire not daring to move, helpless and guilty, a big woman.
“Hullo, Wendy,” he said, not noticing any difference, for
he was thinking chiefly of himself; and in the dim light her
white dress might have been the nightgown in which he had
seen her first.
“Hullo, Peter,” she replied faintly, squeezing herself as
small as possible. Something inside her was crying “Woman,
woman, let go of me.”
“Hullo, where is John?” he asked, suddenly missing the third
“John is not here now,” she gasped.
“Is Michael asleep?” he asked, with a careless glance at
“Yes,” she answered; and now she felt that she was untrue
to Jane as well as to Peter.
“That is not Michael,” she said quickly, lest a judgment
should fall on her.
Peter looked. “Hullo, is it a new one?”
“Boy or girl?”
Now surely he would understand; but not a bit of it.
“Peter,” she said, faltering, “are you expecting me to fly
away with you?”
“Of course; that is why I have come.” He added a little
sternly, “Have you forgotten that this is spring-cleaning
She knew it was useless to say that he had let many spring-cleaning
“I can’t come,” she said apologetically, “I have forgotten
how to fly.”
“I’ll soon teach you again.”
“O Peter, don’t waste the fairy dust on me.”
She had risen; and now at last a fear assailed him. “What
is it?” he cried, shrinking.
“I will turn up the light,” she said, “and then you can
see for yourself.”
For almost the only time in his life that I know of, Peter
was afraid. “Don’t turn up the light,” he cried.
She let her hands play in the hair of the tragic boy. She
was not a little girl heart-broken about him; she was a grown
woman smiling at it all, but they were wet smiles.
Then she turned up the light, and Peter saw. He gave a cry
of pain; and when the tall beautiful creature stooped to lift
him in her arms he drew back sharply.
“What is it?” he cried again.
She had to tell him.
“I am old, Peter. I am ever so much more than twenty. I
grew up long ago.”
“You promised not to!”
“I couldn’t help it. I am a married woman, Peter.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, and the little girl in the bed is my baby.”
“No, she’s not.”
But he supposed she was; and he took a step towards the
sleeping child with his dagger upraised. Of course he did
not strike. He sat down on the floor instead and sobbed; and
Wendy did not know how to comfort him, though she could have
done it so easily once. She was only a woman now, and she
ran out of the room to try to think.
Peter continued to cry, and soon his sobs woke Jane. She
sat up in bed, and was interested at once.
“Boy,” she said, “why are you crying?”
Peter rose and bowed to her, and she bowed to him from the
“Hullo,” he said.
“Hullo,” said Jane.
“My name is Peter Pan,” he told her.
“Yes, I know.”
“I came back for my mother,” he explained, “to take her
to the Neverland.”
“Yes, I know,” Jane said, “I have been waiting for you.”
When Wendy returned diffidently she found Peter sitting
on the bed-post crowing gloriously, while Jane in her nighty
was flying round the room in solemn ecstasy.
“She is my mother,” Peter explained; and Jane descended
and stood by his side, with the look on her face that he liked
to see on ladies when they gazed at him.
“He does so need a mother,” Jane said.
“Yes, I know,” Wendy admitted rather forlornly; “no one
knows it so well as I.”
“Good-bye,” said Peter to Wendy; and he rose in the air,
and the shameless Jane rose with him; it was already her easiest
way of moving about.
Wendy rushed to the window.
“No, no,” she cried.
“It is just for spring-cleaning time,” Jane said; “he wants
me always to do his spring cleaning.”
“If only I could go with you,” Wendy sighed.
“You see you can’t fly,” said Jane.
Of course in the end Wendy let them fly away together.
Our last glimpse of her shows her at the window, watching
them receding into the sky until they were as small as stars.
As you look at Wendy you may see her hair becoming
white, and her figure little again, for all this happened
long ago. Jane is now a common grown-up, with a daughter called
Margaret; and every spring-cleaning time, except when he forgets,
Peter comes for Margaret and takes her to the Neverland, where
she tells him stories about himself, to which he listens eagerly.
When Margaret grows up she will have a daughter, who is to
be Peter’s mother in turn; and thus it will go on, so long
as children are gay and innocent and heartless.~
Excerpt from PETER PAN by kind permission
of Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children, London.