Book 1, Chapter 27: Of Friendship (1 of 3)

In the first part of this touching tribute to his best friend Etienne, Montaigne discusses friendship, and relationships between parent and child

There are some countries where it was custom for children to kill their fathers, and others where the fathers killed their children, to avoid their being an impediment to each other’s lives. Naturally, the expectations of the one depend upon the ruin of the other

I have noted the technique of a painter in my employ, and would not mind imitating it. This painter chooses a beautiful spot – the middle of some wall or panel – and draws his picture there with utmost art and care. Then, he covers the blank spaces around the picture with grotesque art, odd fantastic figures with no grace. In truth, what are the things I scribble here but grotesque and monstrous bodies, made of various parts but without any clear figure and containing, except by accident, no order, coherence, or proportion.

So in the second part I am like the painter, but in the first and better part, I fall very short of him. I don’t have the powers to produce a rich and finely polished piece. I have therefore thought it fit to borrow from Etienne de la Boetie, a piece that will honour and adorn the rest of my work. It is a discourse called ‘Voluntary Servitude’. Etienne wrote it before he was even eighteen years old, and it has since run through the hands of men of great learning, all of whom praise it, because it is finely written and as full as anything can be. And yet, one can confidently say it is far short of what he was able to do. In the more mature age when I knew him, Etienne had decided to commit his thought to writing, the way that I am doing now. We would have had a great many rare things that would have rivaled the best writings of antiquity if he had done so, for I know no man comparable to him. But he left nothing behind except this discourse, which he bequeathed to me along with his library and other papers, in his last will.

I came to know of Etienne because of this discourse, and only became acquainted with him long after he had written it. This discourse, in fact, proved to be the first cause and foundation of our friendship, which we afterwards improved and maintained for as long as God allowed us to be together. Our friendship was so perfect, inviolate, and entire that none like it could be found in any story, and amongst men of our time there is no sign or trace of such a thing. So much concurrence is required for such a friendship that it is much if fortune allows it to pass even once in three ages.

There is nothing to which nature seems to make us as inclined as to society. Aristotle said that good legislators respected friendship more than justice. The most supreme point of its perfection is that those who derive pleasure, profit, public or private interest, or any nourishment from a friendship, other than friendship itself, cannot enjoy one as beautiful and generous as those that don’t. Also, the four ancient kindnesses: natural, social, hospitable, and sexual – either separately or jointly – cannot help in making a true and perfect friendship.

The relationship of children and their parents is based on respect. Friendship is nourished by a communication that is impossible between parent and child, due to great differences. This communication would offend the duties of nature, for neither are all the secret thoughts of fathers fit to be communicated to their children (this would lead to an indecent familiarity), nor can advice and reproofs (one of the principal offices of friendship) be performed by the son towards the father. There are some countries where it was custom for children to kill their fathers, and others where the fathers killed their children, to avoid their being an impediment to each other’s lives. Naturally, the expectations of the one depend upon the ruin of the other.

Many great philosophers have made nothing of parent-child relationships. When Aristippus was pressed about the affection he owed to his children, he spat forcefully and said that that too had come out of him, and that we also breed worms and lice. Plutarch refused to reconcile with his brother, saying he would not give him extra importance just for ‘coming out of the same hole’.

The word itself is fine and delectable, and for that reason Etienne and I called each other brother. But the complication of interests, the division of estates, and the fact that the wealth of the one is also the property of the other weakens and relaxes the fraternal bond. Brothers who pursue their fortunes by advancing along the same path often jostle and hinder one another. Besides, why do the correspondences of manners, parts, and inclinations that beget true and perfect friendships have to meet in blood relations? Father and son may have completely different temperaments; my son, or my brother, may be passionate, ill-natured, or a fool. These are friendships more imposed on us by the law and natural obligation and less by choice.

Personally, however, I have not experienced anything to corroborate, as I have the best and most indulgent father, even now when I am so old, that ever was. And he himself is descended from a family for many generations famous and exemplary for brotherly concord.

In part 2 of this essay, Montaigne discusses, amongst other things, the difference between friendship and the love one feels for a woman. Soon to come … 

Book 1, Chapter 20: Of The Force Of Imagination (3 of 3)

In the final part of this essay, Montaigne muses a bit more about the human body. Then, he shares some surprising examples of the power of the human mind. He ends with a discussion on his own writing

'the bird at last fell dead into the cat’s claws, either dazzled by the force of its own imagination or drawn by some power of the cat'

St. Augustine said he had seen a man who could command his rear to discharge as often as he pleased. Vives provided another example, of a man who could break wind in tune. But these cases don’t provide proof of control over one’s body, for is anything more disordered or indiscreet than these acts? Let me add an example of my own – I know a man so rude and ungoverned that for forty years has been expelling one continuous, never-ending wind, and he’ll probably continue to do so until he dies. I also know men who have fallen very ill because their stomachs have not allowed them to break wind.

We have liberty to break wind whenever we want, but so often this happens irregularly and disobediently. We are unable to will our bodies to do what we want them to do, or to forbid them from doing something.

As for our (male) member, nature has endowed it with particular privilege; it is the author of the sole immortal work of mortals, a divine work, according to Socrates.

But more about the imagination – I know a man who was cured of stones with injections that he thought contained strong medicine but in fact did not. Also, a woman, thinking she had swallowed a pin, cried about an intolerable pain in her throat. A gentleman had her vomit and secretly threw a bent pin into the basin. As soon as the woman saw the pin she was eased of her pain. I also know a man who jokingly bragged to his dinner-guests that he had fed them a baked cat. A young woman was so horrified at this that she fell into violent vomiting and fever.

Animals are also subject to the force of imagination: think of the dogs who die in grief at the loss of their masters, and bark and tremble and cry in their sleep. Horses also kick and whinny in their sleep.

This could all be attributed to the close relationship between the soul and the body, but sometimes, the imagination works not only on one’s own body but even on others. Just as an infected body can transfer its disease onto those nearby, the imagination, becoming vehemently agitated, darts out infection capable of affecting foreign objects. The ancients reported that certain women of Scythia could kill a man just with their looks. Tortoises and ostriches hatch their eggs only by looking at them, as if their eyes have some ejaculative virtue. And the eyes of witches are said to be harmful.

Some time ago there was, in my house, a cat watching a bird on the top of a tree. For some time, they had their eyes fixed on each other. Then, the bird at last fell dead into the cat’s claws, either dazzled by the force of its own imagination or drawn by some power of the cat.

Someone told me of a falconer who brought down a kite from the air just by fixing his eyes upon it. However, I must say here, for the stories that I borrow I rely on the consciences of those from whom I have them. But you know, in the subjects that I speak of – our manners and motions, testimonies and experiences – some stories, as fabulous as they are, provided that they are possible, it does not matter whether they are true or not. Whether they happened in Rome or Paris, to John or Peter, as long as they are within the verge of human capacity, they serve their purpose. I see and make advantage of them as well as I can, and amongst the various readings in old books, I cull out the more rare and memorable to fit my purposes. There are some authors whose only purpose is to give an account of things that have happened. My purpose is to talk about what may happen. There is a freedom allowed in schools to make up examples when you have none at hand. I do not make use of this privilege, and in fact avoid things like superstitious religion. In the examples I bring in, of what I have heard, read, done, or said, I forbid myself from altering even the smallest detail. That my ignorance may do so anyway, I cannot say.

This is why I sometimes wonder how priests and philosophers are fit to write history, for how much can they stake their reputations on a popular faith? How can they be responsible for the opinions of men that they don’t even know? And with what assurance do they deliver their ideas? For my part, I think it is safer to write of the past than the present. That way, the writer only gives account of things everyone knows he must borrow upon trust.

Friends sometimes tell me to write of the present, because they feel I look upon our times with an eye less blinded than others, and that I have a clearer access to the minds of others. They don’t consider that I wouldn't put myself through the trouble, sworn enemy that I am to obligation, difficult work, or attentiveness. There is nothing as contrary to my style as an uninterrupted narrative. I often interrupt myself and am no good at composition or explanation. I am more ignorant than a child of the proper words and phrases to express the most common things, and that is why I only undertake to say what I can say, and have accommodated my subject to my strength. 

Book 1, Chapter 10: Of Quick or Slow Speech

In this quirky piece Montaigne outlines the difference between the witty speaker and the ponderous. Then, he muses over the benefits of being prepared vs. acting spontaneously, and he wonders where his own words come from.

‘All graces were never yet given to any one man’ – a verse from one of Le Brebis’s sonnets

Some are very gifted in the art of speaking; they have a quick and easy wit, ready on all occasions and never taken by surprise. Others are heavy and slow, unable to say anything they have not ‘long premeditated and taken great pains to fit and prepare’.

When we teach young women sports and exercises to enhance and showcase their beauty and their character, we should teach them eloquence too. At the moment, it seems to be a skill that belongs principally to the lawyers and preachers of our age. I for one think that the preacher should be a slow speaker and the lawyer quick, because the preacher can allow himself all the time he wants to prepare. After all, ‘his career is performed in an even … line, without stop or interruption.’ The lawyer, on the other hand, has to prepared to defend a number of different cases, and to face all kinds of ‘unexpected objections and replies’, when the opposition attempts to jostle him off course or have him think up new answers and defences.

Still, lawyers are not always quick-witted. Let me share the example of Pope Clement and King Francis, where the Pope was asked to have a speech delivered on his behalf to the King and his subjects. The man chosen to make the speech was Mr. Poyet, a very experienced lawyer, known for his eloquence. Poyet had prepared the speech long in advance, in Paris. On the day of the speech, the Pope, afraid that the prepared speech was not appropriate, told the King of a speech he felt more suiting to the time and place, but very different from the one Poyet had taken so much time in preparing. The King liked it, and Poyet was asked to contrive a new speech. He found himself completely unable to do so, and in the end someone else gave the speech instead.

The lawyer’s job is more difficult than that of the preacher; and yet, in my opinion we see more passable lawyers in France than preachers. ‘It should seem that the nature of wit is to have its operation prompt and sudden, and that of judgment to have it more deliberate and more slow’. But he who stays silent, in order to take his time in deciding what to say, and he who finds that time does not better his speech at all, are equally unhappy.

Severus Cassius, it is said, spoke best when he was unprepared to speak. He was more obliged then, to fortune than to his own diligence, and it was actually an advantage to him to be interrupted whilst speaking. His adversaries were afraid, therefore, to annoy him, ‘lest his anger should redouble his eloquence.’ I’m familiar with this kind of disposition – so impatient of tedious preparation that it can only perform well if it works with a care-free light-heartedness. We say of some paintings that ‘they stink of oil and of the lamp’ because laborious handling can sometimes lend a rough harshness to work. Besides, the over-worrying about doing well can result in a mind ‘too far strained and overbent’, and this mind ‘breaks and hinders itself’ like water that is unable to escape from the neck of a bottle or a narrow path, due to its own force and abundance. Also, this type of laborious and painstaking style of work cannot be disordered or stimulated with the same kinds of ‘passions of fury’ as Cassius in his speeches.

As for me, I always perform worst when prepared. Accident and chance play a larger role in anything that comes from me than I myself play. The situation, the people I am around, even the rising and falling of my own voice, extract more from my mind than I myself could find if I tried to use my mind myself. Thus, ‘the things I say are better than those I write, if either were to be preferred where neither is worth anything’. Also, I’ve noted that ‘I do not find myself where I seek myself’. I discover things more by chance than by reasoning. Sometimes, I hit upon something when I write, and it appears clever and fresh to me, although maybe to others it will seem dull and heavy. But let’s leave these compliments; everyone talks this way of his perceived talent. 


When I speak, ‘I am already so lost that I know not what I was about to say’ and sometimes the person I am addressing finds out what I mean before I do. If I were to stop myself every time this happened, I would, in fact, say nothing. Often, the meaning of what I have said is made clear to me long after I've actually said it. 

Book 1, Chapter 9: Of Liars

In this wonderfully long and meandering essay, Montaigne first writes about his own poor memory, and how it can be beneficial, at times, to have a bad memory. Then he complains of talkative people, and finally of liars. He talks about two different types of liars, and illustrates with some personal as well as royal examples. 

I have a worse memory than any man I know. ‘My other faculties are all sufficiently ordinary … but in this, I think myself very rare and singular, and deserving to be thought famous’. Plato was certainly right when he called the memory ‘a great and powerful goddess’.

In my country, when someone wants to say someone has no sense, they sometimes say ‘he has no memory’. When I complain of my own defective memory, people do not believe me – they think I am calling myself a fool. They do not differentiate then, between memory and understanding. This is unfair; experience daily shows us, in fact, that a strong memory often goes hand in hand with weak judgment. My friends also do me a disservice when they bring my friendship into question over the issue of my weak memory. Truth is I ‘am so perfect in nothing as in friendship’. But when I forget a request or a promise made, or I forget to say or do or conceal something, they sometimes think this is because I don’t care for them. It should be enough that I feel the misery and inconvenience of neglecting something important to my friend, without being accused of malice for it. Malice couldn’t be more contrary to my personality.

However, I derive some comfort from my weakness. First, this weakness has helped me avoid a worse one, namely, ambition, an intolerable defect in those who take on public affairs. Also, Nature has strengthened my other faculties to compensate for the weakness in memory. If I had had the ideas and opinions of others ever-present with me through the benefits of a good memory, I would have let my judgment and reasoning depend upon their reports, without every bothering to work things out for myself. Also, I would have been talkative. The memory contains much more information, after all, than the intellect. If my memory had been faithful to me I could have ‘deafened all my friends with my babble’. I have observed in several close friends whose memories ‘supply them with an entire and full view of things’, that they ‘begin their narrative so far back, and crowd it with’ so much useless information, that even if the story in itself is good, they destroy it, so you are left either cursing the ‘strength of their memory or the weakness of their judgment’.  And it’s impossible to cut them off or make them get to the point once they have started. Its like with horses; ‘there is nothing wherein the force of a horse is so much seen as in a round and sudden stop’. Even those of my talkative friends who are being quite precise seem to be unable to stop, because, while they are searching for a good line to conclude with, they go on randomly, straggling about on trivialities ‘as men staggering upon weak legs’. Worst of all are the old men who remember the stories of their past well, but forget how often they have already told them. This can be very tiring.

There is another advantage to my weak memory: I remember less the injuries that I have received. Maybe I should keep a list of injuries or have a prompter, like the ruler Darius, who, so as not to forget the injuries caused to him by the Athenians, ordered one of his employees to whisper into his ear at every mealtime, ‘Sir, remember the Athenians’. Remembering less also has the advantage that the places I revisit and the books I reread ‘smile upon me with a fresh novelty.’

It’s not without good reason that they say, ‘he who has not a good memory should never take upon him the trade of lying’. The grammarians distinguish between an untruth (something we say that is false but that we believe to be true) and a lie. The definition of a lie in Latin, from which our French is taken, is to say something that we know in our conscience to be untrue.

I’m going to discuss two types of liars now

a. The ones who make up completely what they say. That is, they wholly invent stories and events that never took place.

b. Those who change and disguise a true story.

The second type, who change true stories, will find it difficult to avoid being trapped at one time or another, because “the real truth of the thing, having first taken possession of the memory, and being there lodged … it will be difficult that it should not represent itself to the imagination, and shoulder out falsehood’. The false version doesn’t have as much of a ‘sure and settled footing’ in the memory as the other, true version. The ‘first true knowledge’ may thus make the liar forget those that are untrue and made up by him.

Those that completely invent a story have no ‘true version’ of the tale to ‘jostle their invention’ and so there is ‘less danger of tripping’. Still, the made-up story can easily escape the memory. I’ve had funny experiences of this type of liar, with men who change their speech according to the situation in which they are speaking, and according to the person they address. They tell one person one story and another a different one. And when their listeners ‘confer notes’ and discover the lie, they are ridiculously trapped, ‘for what memory can be sufficient to retain so many different shapes as they have forged upon one and the same subject?’ I have known people who try to gain the reputation of being great storytellers, of the type described above, but ‘they do not see that if they have the reputation of it, the effect can no longer be.’

‘In plain truth, lying is an accursed vice.’ All we have is our word. We should take ‘the horror and gravity’ of this fact very seriously. I sometimes see parents reprimand their children for innocent mistakes. In my opinion, only lying (and obstinacy, which is of a lower form) should be punished. Otherwise, these qualities increase as the children grow up, ‘after a tongue has once got the knack of lying, ‘tis not to be imagined how impossible it is to reclaim’. We sometimes see, indeed, honest men enslaved to this vice. My tailor, for instance, is an honest lad who never tells the truth, even if the truth is to his advantage. If falsehood had, like truth, only one face, we would be on better terms, because then whatever he told me, I would assume the contrary is true. But no, ‘the reverse of a truth has a hundred thousand forms, and a field indefinite’.  The Pythagoreans see good as being certain and finite, and evil being uncertain and infinite. ‘There are a thousand ways to miss the white, there is only one to hit it’.

And how much less sociable is false speaking than silence? 

- King Francis boasted that he had outwitted the ambassador to the Duke of Milan, a man who was very famous for his own wit. The ambassador had been sent to apologise on behalf of the Duke for this reason:

The King, in order to maintain some intelligence about goings-on in Milan, had sent a representative to be with the Duke. In effect, he was an ambassador, this man, but he was to pretend to be an ordinary man, residing there for his own reasons. A Milanese helper of the King, Merveille, was selected for this role. He was given letters of recommendation and other credentials, and the Duke took him into his court. Presumably, his true role was discovered, because the Duke held a sham two-day trial where he accused Merveille of murder. Then, he had him beheaded.

The King made inquiries, and the Duke’s ambassador arrived, with a long falsified story of what had occurred. He insisted that the Duke had never considered Merveille anything other than a private gentleman in Milan on his own business. The King pressed him with several ‘objections and demands’. For example, he asked why the execution had been done at night, as if by stealth. The ‘poor confounded ambassador’ stumbled, and said that the Duke had too much respect for the King to perform it in the day. It can be guessed that this ambassador was admonished when he went home, ‘for having so grossly tripped in the presence of so delicate a nostril as King Francis’.

- Pope Julius sent a messenger to the King of England, urging him to wage war against the French King Francis. The King’s reaction was hesitant; he worried about putting enough resources together to attach such a powerful king as Francis. The ambassador replied that he too had thought of these difficulties, and told the Pope about them. This response was ‘so directly opposite to the thing propounded and the business he came about, which was immediately to incite him to war’ that the King reasoned that the ambassador was clearly on the side of the French. He told Pope Julius of his suspicion, and on his return, the ambassador’s home was confiscated, and he only just escaped losing his head.