“Self-actualization,” which sounds dismal and pretentious, usually deserves well the abuse it commonly gets. Yet it needn’t always be crass, grasping, or stupid. For all the inanity achieved in its name, it continues to represent a high-minded longing for the democratic ideals of variety and freedom that were celebrated by John Stuart Mill and Walt Whitman. And for those many today unburdened by the demands of a soul, to become “one’s best self” might be the worthiest available ambition.

Maybe if one were to call self-actualization by another name, its stigma would be reduced. And if an exemplar more honorable than its typical advocates could be found, that would bolster its reputation. So call it self-perfection instead, and think of Goethe as its finest embodiment. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832) devoted his life to perfecting himself, and the result was many-sided magnificence. He remains Germany’s greatest poet, playwright, and autobiographer. As a novelist he is second in that country only to Thomas Mann. He was an accomplished botanist, geologist, anatomist, physicist, horseman, and fencer. “Voilà un homme!” said Napoleon of Goethe when Europe’s foremost literary master called on the emperor in 1808. Napolean had plans for his visitor: he would harness Goethe’s poetic and dramatic genius to serve the imperial glory at a Parisian court that would be the artistic and intellectual center of the known world. But Goethe had plans of his own; he knew what he wanted to do and what he did not want