According to Shakespeare, "Some men are born great, some achieve greatness, some have greatness thrust upon them."
Well that's all well and good, Will, but what about the rest of us?
Hoping here the word men denotes all humanity in that charming, ye-olde, 16th century, lightly misogynist way—rather than specifically dismissing half the population. We might also chalk that up to the inherent, character flaws of the pompous, buffoon spouting those particular lines. Enough on greatness, whatever that means in this case. But what about strength? We aren't born strong obviously—we're little gelatinous balls of need. Yet we become strong.
Iron is strong, to a point. But iron is incredibly brittle. Subjected to even small amounts of dynamic stress, the inflexibility of the metal shows. It cracks, it breaks, it crumbles.
So if we talk about a person's character of iron as a synonym of strength, we're implying an innate flaw—that they're unbending, inflexible, unable to change. (That's a backward, Shakespearean compliment if I ever heard one.)
Carbon is one of the most commonplace elements and inexhaustibly plentiful. We associate it with dirt, with coal, with dust, with soot and ash. But add plain ol' dirty carbon to brittle iron and you get steel.
Steel—the epitome of strength, flexible and adaptable, permanent and powerful. We should all aspire to attain this description of ourselves. Steel becomes strong through the forging process. Heating, hammering, testing, cooling, proving.
Greatness either is or isn't, but true strength is steel.
Comments