Since the invention of the Methuselah Treatment, we at 80,000 Hours have updated our career planning framework to address extended lifespans. This guide presents our evidence-based recommendations for maximizing your impact over a 1000-year career.
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Rate which response you like the most?
Response 1
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Response 2
Two paths diverged in an autumn wood,
And sorry I could not journey both
And be one wanderer, long I stood
And gazed down one as far as I could
To where it curved in the undergrowth;
Then saw another, as equally fair,
And having perhaps the stronger claim,
Because it was verdant and needed wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them truly about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no foot had trodden black.
Oh, I saved the second for a future day!
Yet knowing how path leads on to path,
I questioned if I should ever come back.
I shall be sharing this with a sigh
Somewhere decades and decades hence:
Two paths diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one more traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
I met a scholar from an English class
Who said: In dusty archives, seldom passed,
There lies a sonnet, once of mighty fame.
Near it, on yellowed pages, time-worn, lame,
The dedication reads: “Percy Bysshe Shelley,
Who spoke to power through his burning hymns,
Few now recall, save students, grudgingly.
He wrote of Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on his verse, ye readers, and despair!”
Round the decay of that poetic feat,
Bare margins stretch, and in the desert there
His words drift forgotten, like windblown heat.
Jules felt stung as he left the psych ward. He wasn’t bothered by the battery of tests they ran – after all, he’d just had a major head accident. Nor was he bothered by the extra time they’d spent holding him as they flew in a neuro specialist to try and understand his extraordinary condition.
No, it was the final remarks as he was approved for release. “Sure, he’s testing off the charts for mental aptitude, perhaps a tenfold gain in thinking speed and memory, but that’s not a reason to hold him in a ward. What’s he going to do, take over the world?”
This, Jules took personally.
Continue readingHi all, Adam here. I recently attended a creative writing class. It taught me that you don’t need to wait for permission to start writing. I thought I’d have a go at making flash fiction. Enjoy!
Tim was on one of his rants again.
Continue reading
One day, the grokalow crawled out of the swamp.
“It looks like a gargantuan alligator”, cried a bystander, as it approached.
“Nay, it is a brobdingnagian crocodile”, countered a second, as the grokalow licked its leathery lips.
“Without a clear definition, we cannot conclude this thing is a threat”, surmised the third, settling the matter.
The grokalow ate them all, with great satisfaction.