[Footnote 1:  Audacter licet profitearis, summum bonum esse animi concordian.—­Seneca.]

How is inner unity even possible under such circumstances?  It exists neither in the saint nor in the sinner; or rather, the truth is that no man is wholly one or the other.  For it is men they have to be; that is, luckless beings, fighters and gladiators in the arena of life.

To be sure, the best thing he can do is to recognise which part of him smarts the most under defeat, and let it always gain the victory.  This he will always be able to do by the use of his reason, which is an ever-present fund of ideas.  Let him resolve of his own free will to undergo the pain which the defeat of the other part involves.  This is character.  For the battle of life cannot be waged free from all pain; it cannot come to an end without bloodshed; and in any case a man must suffer pain, for he is the conquered as well as the conqueror. Haec est vivendi conditio.

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The clever man, when he converses, will think less of what he is saying that of the person with whom he is speaking; for then he is sure to say nothing which he will afterwards regret; he is sure not to lay himself open, nor to commit an indiscretion.  But his conversation will never be particularly interesting.

An intellectual man readily does the opposite, and with him the person with whom he converses is often no more than the mere occasion of a monologue; and it often happens that the other then makes up for his subordinate role by lying in wait for the man of intellect, and drawing his secrets out of him.

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Nothing betrays less knowledge of humanity than to suppose that, if a man has a great many friends, it is a proof of merit and intrinsic value:  as though men gave their friendship according to value and merit! as though they were not, rather, just like dogs, which love the person that pats them and gives them bits of meat, and never trouble themselves about anything else!  The man who understands how to pat his fellows best, though they be the nastiest brutes,—­that’s the man who has many friends.

It is the converse that is true.  Men of great intellectual worth, or, still more, men of genius, can have only very few friends; for their clear eye soon discovers all defects, and their sense of rectitude is always being outraged afresh by the extent and the horror of them.  It is only extreme necessity that can compel such men not to betray their feelings, or even to stroke the defects as if they were beautiful additions.  Personal love (for we are not speaking of the reverence which is gained by authority) cannot be won by a man of genius, unless the gods have endowed him with an indestructible cheerfulness of temper, a glance that makes the world look beautiful, or unless he has succeeded by degrees in taking men exactly as they are; that is to say, in making a fool of the fools, as is right and proper.  On the heights we must expect to be solitary.