Friendship (P)
Friendship (P)
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Grayling, A. C.
Friendship / A. C. Grayling.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-300-17535-6 (cloth : alk. paper)
1. Friendship. I. Title.
BJ1533.F8G625 2013
177'.62—dc23
2013021868
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Acknowledgements ix
Foreword by Richard G. Newhauser and
John Jeffries Martin x
Introduction 1
PART I Ideas
1 The Lysis and Symposium 19
2 The Classic Statement: Aristotle 31
3 Cicero De amicitia 42
4 Christianity and Friendship 61
5 Renaissance Friendship 76
6 From Enlightenment back to the Roman Republic 95
PART II Legends
7 Excursus: Friendship Illustrated 123
Notes 203
Bibliography 214
Index 219
viii
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obligations owed and trust given, and meet each other’s needs
for boon companionship, comfort, confidences and sharing.
And we do all this to such an extent that if we lose such a friend
we feel the loss deeply, as of someone loved. Indeed we talk of
loving our friends, or some of the closer among them anyway,
and their loss can accordingly be profound.
When I think of the friends I had when young, and of the
friends made in the course of work and endeavour, of the
evenings in their company or on long journeys, of the things
learned and shared with them, of the burdens halved and the
sorrows comforted – and above all the laughter enjoyed, I realise
that it is only the supremest moments of the intimacy of
love that can compare in value to friendship – and even then we
hope that, in the ideal, the former will be a prelude to the latter
for the rest of our days.
Different people provide the friendship we need at different
times in our lives, even if certain very particular friends stay the
whole course. This is a reflection of the fact that most people
change with time and experience, and since all parties to a
friendship are changing simultaneously, it is not surprising that
they might eventually drift apart. In adult life such drift is
accelerated when people take sides with one of a divorcing pair
– and sometimes people who were friends with a couple lose
touch with both of them when they separate.
These are among the facts of contemporary friendship, but
they only scratch the surface, because the interplay of moral
psychology, emotion, the changing patterns of family and
working lives, shifting relationships between the sexes, the effect
of religion and its decline as a controlling force in many societies,
the models offered by film and television, the wider scope for
in this latter period that we have the first fully formed engage-
ments of intelligence with the subject of friendship and – more
completely – the other relationships, principally love, that lie in
neighbouring fields. Plato’s Lysis is the first text we can point to
that addresses philia, friendship, as distinct from eros, passionate
love; his Symposium is the classic of this latter. But the work
that stood for many centuries as the chief point of reference for
discussions of friendship was Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics.
In a sense it might be said that until modern times everything
thought or written about the subject not only did not but could
not start anywhere other than with Aristotle.
Aristotle’s pre-eminence in the debate arises in large part
from the fact that he saw friendship as an essential component
of the well-lived and flourishing life, a eudaimon life. He argued
that the best and highest kind of friendship is that between
people who are good, and who each love (philein) the other
because he – and it is a he in this debate – is good. The friend-
ship of the good is predicated on virtuous activity, which
requires that the parties to it be reflective and capable of the
right kind of self-esteem, which enables them to love good
others properly. That is a key point: to love another as another
self, one must be able to love oneself in the virtuous way (not a
selfish, egoistical, conceited way), and this makes one fit to love
a virtuous other as identical in interests with oneself. And it was
central to Aristotle’s conception of the good life that it should
consist in pleasant and beneficial activity directed towards
friends, which means that the truly good person needs and
desires friends so that he can live the good life.
Epicureans and Stoics, perhaps because they lived with more
practical needs in more insecure times after the high classical
love, which is love of the divine. Love for another human is, he
argued, instrumental to love of God, but despite being instru-
mental is elevated and valorised by it. There are echoes of Plato
not on philia but on the eros of the Symposium here, in which,
likewise, human affection is a path to the transcendent if rightly
enacted.
Aelred did not take the same view; he wished to think with
Cicero that friendship is its own justification, though with
Augustine he wished to think that only Christians could be true
friends to each other. His solution was to say that Christian
friendship is a spiritual affair, such that friends live in the very
heart of charity with one another, enjoying and mutually fostering
its constitutive virtues – temperance, prudence, faithfulness, and
the like – making friendship an exercise of the godly life.
Aquinas argued that the love of friends – in which one loves
another simply and purely for his own sake, and vice versa – is
a model for the love of God, in loving whom we make it
possible for ourselves to become more like God. It would seem
to be implicit in this view that one’s relationship with the deity
is a superlative form of friendship, which to some suggests this
oddity: that on any view, a perfectly self-sufficient being by
definition is in need of nothing, including friends and what
they might offer to such as need friendship. How then can one
be friends with a deity, whose self-sufficiency excludes any basis
for reciprocation? For (as Plato has Socrates argue in the Lysis)
one-sided friendship is scarcely friendship.
Modern views about friendship follow the Renaissance shift
of attention from subordinating everything of value to a place
in the divine scale, to giving them a place in their own right in
the human scale. An evolving thread of difference from and
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Ideas
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boy, if you become wise, all men will be your friends and
kindred, for you will be useful and good; but if you are not
wise, neither father, nor mother, nor kindred, nor anyone else,
will be your friends.” ’4
We thus learn that friends are those who hold all things in
common, and are useful to each other. This is the picture we
have in mind when we read Socrates’ passionate asseveration
that the one thing he has always, with all his heart, longed for
more than anything else, is friends: ‘ “I must tell you that I am
one who from my childhood upward have set my heart upon a
certain possession . . . I have a passion for friends . . . Yea, by
the dog of Egypt, I should greatly prefer a real friend to all the
gold of Darius . . .”’5 He tells Menexenus how he envies the
perfect friendship that he and Lysis seem so easily to have estab-
lished, and wishes to quiz him on how they managed it. But
then the dialogue collapses into a sophistical exercise of tying
Menexenus in knots over whether a pair can be mutual friends
if only one loves the other, and how one can determine in that
case which is the friend, for if the friend is he who loves another
then it might turn out that people can be loved by their enemies,
who are therefore their friends . . . and so on into paradox.6
This part of the discussion might have been short-circuited
by Menexenus if he had refused to accept that there can be true
friendship which is not mutual, and that although one person
can unrequitedly love (the dialogue still speaks of philia not
eros) another and therefore be a friend to him, the relationship
itself would need to be qualified accordingly; for whatever it is,
it does not deserve the name of friendship as such.
More to the point is the discussion in which Socrates and
Lysis agree that there is something to the idea that like attracts
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like, but that since evil men are like each other but might well
not be good friends to each other because of their evilness,
friendship should only be seen as the mutuality of good people
who are alike. But Socrates slides from this to the generalisa-
tion that ‘the good are friends’ (permitted by the idea that those
who are alike in being good are otherwise alike: a fallacy) and
then declares that he is not satisfied with it7 – as indeed he
should not be, for those who are alike in some respects might
be very different in other respects, and their being alike in good-
ness might be the only respect in which they are alike. His
reason is that if two people are alike, they can only get from
one another what they can get from themselves: ‘And if neither
can be of any use to the other, how can they feel affection for
one another?’ Since Lysis feebly agrees both to this sophistical
reasoning and to the instrumental view of friendship it supports,
Socrates is able to conclude that ‘the like is not the friend of the
like in so far as he is like’,8 thus apparently denying what we
instinctively know to be true, namely, that shared interests and
outlook, a similar sense of humour and a shared past make
potent cement in relationships, and is surely what we mean in
talking of people being ‘like’ one another.
Socrates then finds a way of refuting the thought that
‘the good may be the friend of the good in so far as he is
good’ by arguing that because good people, in virtue of being
so, are self-sufficient and have no need of anyone else, and
because ‘he who wants nothing will feel affection for nothing
. . . and he who loves not is not a lover or a friend’, it follows
that the good will not be the friend of the good.9 This is
a classic example of early Platonic sophistry (‘the good are
self-sufficient, therefore they lack nothing, therefore they will
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his life for his beloved – he cites Achilles and Patroclus – we have
Pausanias describing the situation in contemporary Athens in
which it is accepted that men will love boys, but that boys must
be guarded from the attentions of men, a double standard that
Pausanias decries on the grounds that if the man’s attitude is
honourable and his aim is to educate his beloved in prudence and
wisdom, the relationship ought to be encouraged. This is a
higher form of love than the ‘vulgar’ love which has its focus on
physical satisfaction. It is implicit in the tale that two of those
present at the party, Eryximachus and Phaedrus, had begun their
long-standing relationship in just that way.
In contrasting ways Eryximachus and Aristophanes reprise
the familiar ideas that love arises between opposites or between
incomplete halves. In replying to Agathon’s poetic invocation of
love as a juvenile deity, Socrates rejects the idea that love can be
divine, for it involves desire, and desire is for what one lacks, and
therefore the love is not felt by one who is rich or wise, but by one
who seeks wealth and wisdom. A person who is aware of being
ignorant strives for wisdom, unlike either the god who is already
wise or the foolish person who is unaware of being ignorant.
And then Socrates claims to be rehearsing what he learned
from the priestess Diotima: that the beauty represented in an
individual – for example in the body of a beautiful youth – is an
instance of what is present in the beauty of bodies in general,
and which makes them beautiful. Realisation of this leads on to
thoughts of the beauty of minds, and thence of moral nobility
and knowledge, and by these gradations finally to Beauty itself,
the imperishable, perfect and eternal Form of Beauty.
In this account love – eros – is desire for everything good, if
the greatest goods, among them beauty, happiness and truth,
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Aristotle says there; ‘after all, people will not even take a
journey in common with their enemies.’3 He says ‘philia is the
motive of society’,4 and that it is even more important than
justice because it is what promotes concord in the city.5
Aristotle describes friendship as an ‘excellence’, and essential
to the living of a good and worthwhile life. Even those – indeed,
perhaps especially those – who have wealth or power need friends,
he says, for how otherwise would they be able to show benefi-
cence, or protect their wealth and position, which are more at risk
the greater they are? Moreover, ‘in poverty and all other kinds of
misfortune people think of their friends as their only refuge’.6 And
friends help each other; they help the young to learn, they care for
the old, and encourage those in their prime to behave finely.
So far these remarks imply that friendship is useful and,
correlatively, an acknowledgement of deficiencies in need of
being supplied. But although these commonplaces are true,
they do not get to the nub of the matter. What is the nature of
the friendship that serves these purposes, and are these purposes
all that there is to friendship? And what is or could be the
highest, best or most distinctive aspect of it? Aristotle mentions
the ‘disputes’ that arise in efforts to answer these questions,
with some saying that friendship is a matter of like attracting
like, while others argue that it arises in the mutual attraction of
opposites – both of them familiar and conventional views in
competition with each other, and which Aristotle’s own succinct
definition – ‘a man becomes a friend when he is loved and
returns that love and this is recognised by both men in question’
– by itself leaves open.7 To clarify matters, Aristotle says, we
should instead begin by asking ‘what is it that is loved?’ What
are the phileta or ‘lovables’?
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There are three phileta, he says, and they are what is useful,
what is pleasing, and what is excellent. These correlate to three
kinds of friends: those who are friends with each other because
of the advantages gained by being so, those who are friends
with each other because of the pleasure it brings them to be
so, and those who are friends with each other because they
‘resemble each other in excellence’ and love each other because
of ‘what the other is’.8 This last, he says, is the truest and
highest kind of friendship.
The friendships of utility and pleasure are incidental affairs,
easily ended when the utility or pleasure evaporates, as in their
nature they are all too prone to do.9 This is clear in the case
of the pleasure-based friendships of the young, who live by
emotion and seek immediate gratification in what lies close to
hand; and they are erotically inclined, says Aristotle, which
adds to the propensity for quick beginnings and endings, espe-
cially in those youthful friendships.10
Friendship between virtuous people – people who are good
without qualification; good in themselves – is lasting and
complete. Utility and pleasure are comprehended in this friend-
ship, but they are not constitutive of it; its constitutive aspects lie
in the fact that it is the friendship of people who are alike in
virtue, and who wish good things for each other both because
these things are good in themselves and because each is recog-
nised by the other as good in himself. The friendship between
them ‘lasts so long as they are good, and excellence is something
lasting’.11 Desiring the good for the other is eunoia, ‘goodwill’
(the English term ‘benevolence’ derives from the Latin cognate).
A problem implicit in the nature of friendship thus conceived,
from Aristotle’s own point of view, is that it is not going to be
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achieved by many, for there are too few people with a sufficient
degree of virtue and eunoia to make it general.12 At one point,
indeed, Aristotle seems to think that his account offers such an
idealised and demanding portrait of friendship that it could
never be realised in practice: ‘Friends! there is no friend!’ he
despairingly says. If it were thought that goodwill is sufficient
for friendship, not merely necessary, the problem would be
resolved; but goodwill is not itself friendship, since people can
have good will towards those who are not friends; rather, it is
the starting point of friendship and, as with like-mindedness, a
concomitant of it.13
Aristotle famously then says that ‘[a person] is to his friend
as he is to himself, for his friend is another self’.14 We can there-
fore read off the attributes of friendship from the concern that
an individual has for himself. The self-respecting person
wishes for what is good for himself, and what appears good,
and he does it (for it is a mark of a good person to work hard
at what is good), and for his own sake (he does it for the sake
of the thinking element of himself, which is what each of us
is thought to be). He also wishes himself to live and be kept
safe, and most of all that with which he understands, since to
the good person existing is something good, and each of us
wishes good things for himself.15
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her friend for her friend’s own sake. She does not like or love
her because of what she can get from the relationship or
because it happens for the time being to be enjoyable; these are
the incomplete or imperfect friendships which are not destined
to last. Reciprocity is another feature: true friends think and
feel the same way about each other, something made possible
by the fact that their relationships are based on virtue – each
party to the relationship is a virtuous person, and each recog-
nises and loves this fact about the other. And this is further to
say that the best kind of friendship is based on character, and
moreover the best kind of character, which is the reason – in
Aristotle’s view – for its relative rarity.
As mentioned, Aristotle does not restrict the use of ‘friend-
ship’ to denote only those relationships where mutual benevo-
lence felt for the other’s intrinsic sake is its basis, because he is
practical enough to recognise that relationships based on utility
and pleasure are types of friendship too, just as are kin rela-
tions and amicable transactions with foreigners. But they are
not ‘complete’ – that is the point; and in not being so, they are
far less likely to endure, and are of lower intrinsic value.
Recall that Aristotle thinks that friendship is an essential
constituent of the good life and the happiness that characterises
it – eudaimonia.The question therefore arises whether only the
highest kind of friendship is such a constituent, or can the incom-
plete kinds also serve? It is clear from Aristotle’s opening discus-
sion about how we need friends in order to exercise our beneficence
and secure help in times of need that friendship as such, not
necessarily or only the highest form of it, is a desideratum.
The characteristic streak of pragmatism in Aristotle is at
work here. Earlier in the Nicomachean Ethics he remarks that
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The observation that the best is the enemy of the good might
seem to apply rather squarely to Aristotle’s account. He is
surely right to say that a life without friends would, at very
least, be an impoverished one, and for the reasons that he
begins by noting: that without friends we have no field for the
exercise of beneficence, no helpers and supporters in times of
need, no bond that keeps communities together, no teachers of
the young or carers of the old, no encouragers to virtue for
those in the prime of life. Yet there is more to the matter: if
friendly sentiments can be felt towards strangers as well as kin,
and if even animals can be friends to their own kind, then
friendship has a strong claim to being essential simpliciter, not
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Cicero De amicitia
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think true friendship is richer and more abundant than that and
does not narrowly scan the reckoning lest it pay out more than
it has received.’26
The last most exercises Laelius, who is emphatic that a
friend should not value others and himself equally, as demon-
strated by the case where one’s friend is downcast or despairing:
is one to have the same estimate of oneself, or should one not
‘strive to rouse him up and lead him into a better train of
thought and livelier hopes’?27
So where is the boundary? Well, pace what Laelius had to
say earlier about the unacceptability of abetting a friend in
committing treason or doing something dishonourable, he now
says that loyalty requires that we should indeed help a friend
even if it means ‘turning aside from the straight path’, just so
long as doing so does not involve us in ‘utter disgrace’, and if it
is a matter that involves the friend’s life or reputation. Note
that he says ‘we should turn aside from the straight path’. But
the possibility of disgrace offers at least an outer boundary, the
‘limit to the indulgence which can be allowed to friendship’:
this is the one thing neither Laelius nor Cicero was prepared to
contemplate even for a friend. Death, yes; disgrace, no.28
Evidently this is an aspect of the matter that gave Cicero
difficulty. A few pages after this he talks about ‘loyalty’ and
‘unswerving constancy’ as the ‘support and stay’ of friendship,29
which does not sit well either with the stricter or the laxer limits
to friendship he has so far described. So he prefaces his talk of
loyalty with a diversion into the need to choose one’s friends
carefully, testing them first: ‘hence it is the part of wisdom to
check the headlong rush of goodwill as we would that of a
chariot, and thereby so manage friendship that we may in some
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It is not possible to leave antiquity – still less, its lessons for our
own time – without mention of Plutarch and the question he
raises about having too many friends.35 This is a point of rele-
vance to us today because of the huge numbers of ‘friends’ that
people acquire on such social media as Facebook. If one has
ten, fifty, a hundred, a thousand ‘friends’ on Facebook, are they
all friends? If they are, are they all equally friends? Does the
distinction between friends and acquaintances take on a partic-
ular significance in the Facebook age? As with at least some
other matters of significance, the ancient world is not without
insights.
Plutarch is better known for his Parallel Lives than his Moral
Essays, but some of these latter have great charm and interest
– not least on this matter of how many friends can really be
friends.
In Plutarch’s view, one major obstacle to acquiring a really
good friend is the desire for many friends, which is the product
of our love of novelty and our fickleness and inconstancy, so
that we are forever pursuing new friendships even though they
come to nothing.36 He points out that literature teaches us that
exemplary friendships all consist in the relationship between a
pair, and cites the examples of Theseus and Pirithous, Achilles
and Patroclus, Orestes and Pylades, Phintias and Damon,
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The agony Augustine suffered over his lost friend drove him
from Tagaste to Carthage so that he could escape the scene of
his grief. In time the grief abated, and ‘what revived and
refreshed me, more than anything else, was the consolation of
other friends, with whom I went on loving the things I loved’,
though not (as Augustine retrospectively laments) God himself.
Then he gives the following superb account:
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Superb.
This is, though, a noticeably secular account. ‘This is what
we love in our friends,’ Augustine says; ‘and we love it so much
that a man’s conscience accuses itself if he does not love one
who loves him, or responds in love to love, seeking nothing
from the other but the evidences of his love. This is the source
of our moaning when one’s friend dies – the gloom of sorrow,
the steeping of the heart in tears, all sweetness turned to
bitterness – and the feeling of death in the living, because of the
loss of the life of the dying.’7 Immediately after these words
Augustine writes a long prayer, as if making it up to the deity
for the fact that he loved his friends better than he loved him. A
dithyramb to God obliges him to end by saying, ‘These things I
did not understand at that time [the time of those friendships],
and I loved those inferior beauties.’8
But the key dilemma for the Christian is tucked away in the
very first line of the prayer: ‘Blessed is he who loves thee, and
who loves his friend in thee, and his enemy also, for thy sake;
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for he alone loses none dear to him, if all are dear to Him who
cannot be lost.’9 If our greatest love is to be reserved to God,
then to love another human too much, or more than God, is
wrong. It is moot how much love for anyone other than God is
left over if we are to love God ‘with all our heart and all our
might’, as the adjuration has it; but anyway such love has to be
experienced ‘through God’. But we are to love our enemies
as well as our friends; we are to love everyone; ‘love thy neigh-
bour as thyself’ is the second of the new commandments issued
by Christ, and in answer to the question ‘Who is my neigh-
bour?’ the answer is given in the Good Samaritan story about
complete strangers.10 In the passionate and moving letters
of Héloïse to Abélard after their misfortunes, the power of
human love is as well displayed as in Augustine’s pre-conversion
friendships; both Abélard’s po-faced responses and Augustine’s
post-conversion regrets illustrate the reverse.11
Yet the story of friendship in Augustine did not end with his
conversion. In fact the Confessions makes it clear that as well
as Ambrose of Milan it was his friends Nebridius and Alypius
who were his companions on the road to conversion and there-
after. Of Alypius, alongside whom he was baptised and who
became bishop of Tagaste when he was himself bishop of
Hippo, Augustine wrote, ‘he was the brother of my heart . . .
anyone who knows us would say that he and I are distinct
individuals in body only, not in mind; I mean in our harmoni-
ousness and trusty friendship.’12 This is the attestation of
someone for whom friendship is a matter of great human
significance, which all the obeisance to a third party (viz. the
deity) in the relationship does not change; one could edit out
the apostrophes to the deity and be left with a marvellous
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truly, after all, when you love God in your friend, either because
he is in him, or in order that he may be in him . . . there is no
true friendship unless God welds it between souls that cling
together by the love poured into their hearts by the Holy
Spirit.’16 This was the major theme of the converted Augustine,
and the tension between love of God and love of human friends
was resolved in the piety that it is God who forges the friend-
ships in the first place. And it had better be so, Augustine
admonishes, for if friendship is allowed to be wholly secular,
it can lead us astray: ‘The bond of human friendship has a
sweetness of its own, binding many souls into one. Yet because
of these values, sin is committed, because we have an inordinate
preference for these goods of a lower order and neglect the
better and the higher good.’17 What he had in mind was the
‘unfriendly friendship’ that had led him to steal pears as a
boy: blaming his companions for leading him astray, he
famously recounts the occasion on which he stole pears from
a neighbour’s farm, pears that were not very tempting to look
at or eat, so that it was not the fruit itself but the mere pleasure
of the adventure that counted, because it was forbidden.
‘Looking back I am now certain that I would not have done it
had I been alone. Maybe what I really loved was the compan-
ionship of the friends with whom I did it . . . Oh unfriendly
friendship!’18
The finished doctrine of friendship in Augustine is unim-
peachably a theological one. ‘There can be no full and true
agreement about human things among friends who disagree
about divine things, for it necessarily follows that one who
despises divine things esteems human things more than he
ought, and that whoever does not love God who made man, has
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You shall love the Lord your God with your whole heart and
soul and with all your mind; you shall love your neighbour as
yourself; so, regarding the first, there is agreement on divine
matters, regarding the second, there is goodwill and love; if
you and your friend hold fast to these two commandments,
your friendship will be true and eternal, uniting you not only
to each other but to the Lord himself.20
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Renaissance Friendship
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the end of his Tenth Day story of Titus and Gisippus in the
Decameron:
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are called well-bred and talented men; and the thought of these
gives me a distaste for others. Their kind is, rightly considered,
the rarest that we have, a kind that owes almost everything to
nature.’16 To nature, he says, and therefore not education; but
we had better register here that ‘good breeding’ is not a gift of
nature. There are kindly and noble people whom we might call
‘nature’s gentlefolk’, but that is a different matter; Montaigne
might have found them among his gardeners, and in this account
they are not in his library with him sitting beside his fire.
‘The purpose of our intercourse,’ he continues, ‘is simply
intimacy, familiarity, and talk; the exercise of the mind is our
sole gain. In our conversations all subjects are alike to me. I do
not care if there is no depth or weight to them; they always
possess charm, and they always keep to the point.’17 What
makes such intercourse pleasing is that it is the meeting of
mature judgements seasoned with ‘kindness, candour, gaiety
and friendship’. It might be difficult to see how it can be an
indifferent matter whether talented and rare interlocutors
discuss their subjects without ‘weight or depth’, but the formu-
lation is misleading. Earlier in the essay Montaigne apostro-
phises pedants who mask rather than illuminate their interests
with long words and intellectual conceits.18 Here he says that
learning can only be part of the talk if it is not ‘schoolmasterly,
imperious and tiresome, as it usually is, but ready to take a
lesson. We are only seeking to pass the time.’19 The point,
however, is that the value of talk with people chosen for their
personal qualities is guaranteed by the latter: ‘The mind of a
well-bred person, familiar with the world of men, can be suffi-
ciently agreeable in itself. Art is nothing else but the register
and record of the works of such minds.’20
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power is in the hands of the people, who can get it, without
violence, if they will. As the work’s title suggests, de La Boétie
thought that, by accepting their servitude, the subjects of a
tyrant were more at fault than the tyrant himself. In its time and
context it was a work with potential to be inflammatory, and its
adoption by the Huguenots as propaganda in their cause made
it so. De La Boétie was himself Catholic, but in his work as a
magistrate he had tirelessly striven to keep the peace between
the religious factions, in his jurisdiction allocating churches or,
where there was only one church in a village, different hours of
worship to the different persuasions. When the edict of tolera-
tion for Huguenots was published in January 1571 he welcomed
it joyfully.
Alas, de La Boétie was not long for the world. He fell ill and
died at the young age of thirty-three, after he and Montaigne
had enjoyed an intense and wonderful friendship for just four
years. Montaigne, two years the younger, had also served as a
magistrate, and they knew of one another long before they met.
Montaigne had moreover read and greatly approved the
Voluntary Servitude tract when it was circulating in manuscript
‘among men of understanding’.22 When they met it was as if
they were predestined for friendship, so irresistibly were they
drawn to each other, so immediate the attraction and under-
standing between them. ‘At our first meeting, which happened
by chance at a great feast and gathering in the city, we found
ourselves so captivated, so familiar, so bound to each other,
that from that time nothing was closer to either than each was
to the other.’23
Despite the concord of interests and outlook, and the prepa-
ration their friendship had received from the fact that they
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unseen rather than seen, of the future or the past rather than
the present moment. ‘Sentiment is nothing, till you have arrived
at a mystery and a veil, something that is seen obscurely, that is
just hinted at in the distance, that has neither certain colour nor
outline, but that is left for the mind to fill up according to its
pleasure and in the best manner it is able.’33
For Godwin the ‘great model’ of love in human beings is the
‘sentiment which subsists between parents and children’, and
the charms even of sexual attraction and what Milton calls ‘the
rites mysterious of connubial love’ are a function, Godwin
claims, of the hope that they will produce offspring. Much of
the essay is taken up with an examination of how the emotion
of love is most fully expressed in this relationship. Given his
view that love springs from ‘the conscious feeling of the
protector and the protected’, and that it needs to be acted
on – ‘Our passions cannot subsist in lazy indolence; passion
and action must operate on each other; passion must produce
action, and action give strength to the tide of passion’ – it is
entirely natural to see the parent–child relationship as paradig-
matic.34 It is a view which does him warm credit, but it is
implausible; by any standards the love of parents for children
and its reciprocal are two very different kinds of feeling, and
each is different again from the several other kinds of love there
are. Godwin ignores the distinctions drawn by the Greeks
between agape, eros, ludus, storge, pragma – respectively love
for one’s fellow humans, erotic love, playful love, companionate
love, pragmatic love – and the combinations and different
strengths of mixtures of these and perhaps yet others.
For our purposes the thesis is interesting when Godwin
applies it to friendship as such. There too we find inequality the
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each party must feel that it stands in need of the other, and
without the other cannot be complete; each party must be
alike conscious of the power of receiving and conferring
benefit; and there must be the anticipation of a distant
future, that may every day enhance the good to be imparted
and enjoyed, and cause the individuals thus united perpetu-
ally to become more sensible of the fortunate event which
gave them to each other, and has thus entailed upon each a
thousand advantages in which they could otherwise never
have shared.39
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As usual, the focus has been exclusively male so far, and that is
because the theatre of friendship in this period was a public,
external or outward one, and women were still enclosed in the
domestic sphere, their relationships within it regarded as
limited and shallow. That nothing could be further from the
truth is obvious in the vastly richer and deeper analysis of rela-
tionships to be found in Jane Austen, the Brontës, George Eliot
and Mrs Gaskell. It takes a single example to illustrate the
point: the friendship between the two Bennet sisters Elizabeth
and Jane in Pride and Prejudice (1813). Contrastingly, Emma
(1816) explores how a woman can fail to be a good friend to
another woman, as Emma’s behaviour towards Harriet Smith
and Miss Bates illustrates, and likewise with the set of contrasts
between Frank Churchill, George Knightley, Mr Elton, Jane
Fairfax, Mr Woodhouse and the rest.
What these novels show is that in Austen’s ethics of friend-
ship, the virtues of loyalty, love, steadfastness, frankness,
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with his arrows, against which none, not even the gods them-
selves, are proof.
The other category is marriage or marriage-like settling-
down, with children and a mortgage in many cases; and the
discussion of this relates to its challenges and problems, its
failures, how to keep the sex going, how to cope with the infi-
delity that the artificialities of monogamy prompt, and so on.
Here, if one or more of habit, compromise, affection and kind-
ness have not made a peace, all is effort (‘one has to work at a
marriage’) and even struggle, with discussion, emotional nego-
tiations, concessions, silences, quarrels, perhaps marriage
counsellors, too often lawyers – and then perhaps Dr Johnson’s
triumph of hope over experience, though often the second or
subsequent attempts have more of the character Jane Austen
would approve, than the allure of ignorance on whose basis the
first attempt was made.47
Homosexual relationships of the cottaging variety stand,
with certain others, outside these categories, though perhaps
closer to the first; but it is interesting to note how, as this sexu-
ality becomes ever more accepted and mainstream, many gays
themselves wish to conform to the heterosexual norms,
including marriage and family life.48
If nothing else is shown by the modern forms of relationship
that see ‘love and marriage’ as higher goals than friendship,
contrasting with the belief through most of history that frien-
ship is the highest form of human relationship, it is that we
have a less clear idea than our forebears had of what friendship
is. Perhaps this is not just because it is less important than ‘love
and marriage’-type relationships now are; perhaps it is because
it now takes so many more forms.
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Legends
some would doubtless argue that perhaps they were those dimen-
sions more than they were friendships as such; but that would be
to beg the question against the thought that such relationships
could be both friendships and sexual loves, which the characters
and intellects of both Pericles and Aspasia strongly suggest.1
Let us begin with the first of the first: the relationship
between two Greek warriors, one of whom was the beautiful
and all but invincible young hero whose quarrel with
Agamemnon is the starting point for Homer’s Iliad.
Homer does not say that the two were lovers. In fact he
seems to suggest otherwise; in Book IX when the two go to bed
after being visited by Odysseus and Ajax, Achilles sleeps on one
side of an inner room with ‘beside him the daughter of
Phorbas, lovely Diomede, whom he had carried off from
Lesbos’, while Patroclus ‘lay on the other side of the room, and
with him fair Iphis whom Achilles had given him when he took
Scyros the city of Enyeus’.2
This heterosexual arrangement is clear enough. But what
would hearers of the Homeric poems in the ancient Greek
world, and later – after they were collected and written down
at the behest of Peisistratus – their then readers, have assumed
about them? The answer is that they did indeed assume that
they were lovers also; for this we have the authority of Aeschylus
in fragments from his lost play The Myrmidons, Plato in the
Symposium, and Aeschines’ Timarchus among others.3 And
there was a frisson of disapproval about them on the part of
some ancients, because although Achilles was the younger, or
thought to be so – in ancient depictions on vases and the like he
appears without a beard while Patroclus has one – he was
regarded as the lover, playing the part of the erastes, and
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127
was sorry for him and said, “Why, Patroclus, do you weep like
a silly child who comes running to its mother and begs to be
taken up and carried?”’ Patroclus answers,
I weep for the disaster that is befalling our Argives; all our
champions are lying wounded at their ships . . . O Achilles –
so inexorable? May it never be my lot to nurse a passion such
as you have done, to the harm of your own good name! Who
in future will speak of you unless you save the Argives now?
You know no pity; Peleus was not your father or Thetis your
mother, but instead the grey sea and the sheer cliffs are your
parents, so cruel and remorseless are you . . . At least send the
Myrmidons with me; let me wear your armour; the Trojans
may mistake me for you and therefore quit the field, giving
the hard-pressed Achaeans some breathing time.6
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129
Achilles’ grief is not just for the loss of his friend, but for his
failure in not being by his side to protect him. ‘Said Achilles in
his great grief, “I would die here and now, in that I could not
save my comrade. He has fallen far from home, and in his hour
of need my hand was not there to help him.” ’13
Achilles’ mother, silver-footed Thetis, arranged to have a
new set of armour made for him by Hephaestus. He had to wait
for it until the next day before he could set out to take revenge
on Hector. But to give the Greeks heart he mounted the defen-
sive trench by the wall, and three times shouted, which sent
panic among the Trojans, and heart into the Greeks, who were
at last able to drive Hector off the body of Patroclus and bring
it back to Achilles.14
All night long the Myrmidons gathered with Achilles around
the bier of Patroclus where it was laid after they had ‘washed
off the clotted gore’. The next day, wearing the beautiful
armour made for him by the god, Achilles went to battle,
killing many and driving the rest behind their city’s walls; and
at last killing Hector himself, whose body, in his grief and rage,
he dishonoured by dragging it three times round the walls of
Troy behind his chariot.15
130
‘Let not my bones be laid apart from yours, Achilles, but with
them; even as we were brought up together in your own
home, what time Menoetius brought me to you as a child
from Opoeis . . . your father Peleus took me into his house,
entreated me kindly, and named me to be your squire; there-
fore let our bones lie together in a single urn, the two-handled
golden vase given to you by your mother.’ Achilles answered,
‘Why, true heart, I will do all as you ask. Draw closer to me,
let us once more throw our arms around one another, and
find sad comfort in the sharing of our sorrows.’ He opened
his arms towards him as he spoke and would have clasped
him, but there was nothing, and the spirit vanished as a
vapour . . . Achilles sprang to his feet, smote his two hands
together, and made lamentation.16
but Achilles still wept for thinking of his dear comrade, and
sleep, before whom all things bow, could take no hold upon
him. He turned this way and that as he yearned after the might
and manfulness of Patroclus; he thought of all they had done
together, and all they had gone through both on the field of
battle and on the waves of the weary sea. As he dwelt on these
things he wept bitterly and lay now on his side, now on his
back, now face downwards, till at last he rose and went out as
131
The questions that arise with Achilles and Patroclus also arise
with David and Jonathan in the first book of Samuel in the
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dead husbands and to me. May the Lord grant that you will
find peace in the home of another husband. Then she kissed
them goodbye and they wept aloud.’32
One of them, named Orpah, does as she is bidden; the
other, Ruth, ‘clung to her’ and refused to go: ‘Do not urge me
to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you will go I will
go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my
people and your God will be my God. Where you die I will die,
and there will I be buried. May the lord deal with me severely
if even death separates you and me.’33 Things turn out well for
the two women in Judah, where Naomi helps Ruth get a kind
new husband, by whom she has a son, Obed, who is the father
of Jesse, who is the mother of David.
The story is, as usual, multiply appropriated; it is a text for
Jewish converts, which Ruth was, and for lesbians, and for those
who have moral points to make about women or daughters-
in-law, and for those who see allegory everywhere. Scholars
point to the possibility of a very late composition of the story,
which has all the marks of a novella perhaps composed in
Hellenistic times.34 The characters’ names have meanings suited
to the story; ‘Naomi’ means ‘gracious one’ but she asks to be
called ‘Mara’ after her bereavements, for it means ‘the bitter
one’. ‘Ruth’ means ‘friend’. The other names work likewise.
This is a story about friendship, straightforwardly so, despite
the best efforts of those who claim that a lesbian relationship is
proved by the fact that the word ‘love’ in ‘Ruth loved Naomi’ is
the same ‘love’ as is used in Genesis in saying ‘Adam loved Eve’
– that is, conjugal or sexual love, ‘how spouses are supposed to
feel for each other’.35 It would be to the good if such an infer-
ence were otherwise supported, but it is not. What the Book of
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143
And for our purposes, finally, he urges that friends ‘put aside
rivalry, contentiousness and competitiveness, for friendship is
not found among those who struggle against one another, but
among those who aid one another in struggle’.44
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subject, Djuna Barnes, brings the latter into vivid focus in her
old age, in one small cluttered room, struggling with mortality
but still bright-eyed, like a tiny bird that will not give up the
desire to fly.
Not all the friendships related here would be called such by
observers: Susan Sontag never felt that she liked Paul Goodman
much, but missed him when he died, and Robert Craft’s rela-
tionship with Igor Stravinsky is one that goes as far beyond
friendship as it fails to approach its normal lineaments. But all
this does is to show how variously and strangely people’s lives
become intertwined, so that when the relationship ends – in
these cases because of death, that absurd and imponderable
interruption of so much creativity and intelligence – there is at
very least regret, and a large preparedness to understand.61
There should be more such books. For as one says: one
could go on. There is the Bloomsbury Group, the friendships
among the members of which were creative, not least in giving
scope for what has been called ‘the higher bitchery’ too. They
– an extended list would include Virginia Woolf and her sister
Vanessa Bell, Clive Bell, Roger Fry, Lytton Strachey, at a pinch
John Maynard Keynes, and other lesser lights – were inspired
by G. E. Moore’s view in Principia Ethica that the highest
values, the ones chiefly worth pursuing and realising in life, are
beauty and friendship; so they economised by having beautiful
friends. Before and after them other groups of friends likewise
made coteries of creativity – the Shelleys and Byron in Italy,
Picasso, Braque and Apollinaire in Paris at the beginning of the
twentieth century, Robert Graves, Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred
Owen recuperating at Craiglockhart in 1917, the Algonquin
round table in New York, the Toynbee–Nicolson lunch club in
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track of life ‘with equal feet’; pain was halved because it was
shared with him. The word Tennyson consistently uses to
describe their mutual feeling is ‘love’.
Moreover it is love – ‘the spirit of true love’ – that reassures
him when he anxiously wonders whether the soul of his lost
friend will detect him in sin, seeing him think or do something
dishonourable: ‘Thou canst not move me from thy side,/Nor
human frailty do me wrong . . . So fret not, like an idle girl,/that
life is dashed with flecks of sin.’ The admonition not to behave
like a girl prompts a simile: ‘My spirit loved and loves him yet/
Like some poor girl whose heart is set/On one whose rank
exceeds her own.’
The metaphor of widowhood is Tennyson’s choice for
explaining his loss. ‘Two partners of a married life— /I look’d
on these and thought of thee/In vastness and in mystery,/And of
my spirit as of a wife.’ In revisiting Cambridge, and thinking of
their time together, Tennyson acknowledges himself as the
Patroclus, the Pylades of the pair, though not in those words;
he remembers Arthur’s effect on others, ‘While I, thy nearest,
sat apart,/And felt thy triumph was as mine . . . Nor mine the
sweetness or the skill,/But mine the love that will not tire, And,
born of love, the vague desire/That spurs an imitative will.’
The poem’s correlative religious themes – for it is a religious
poem too; although of religious doubt in the face of science,
and of a substitution of love itself as the agent of salvation – do
not do much to assuage the intense grief it expresses. The hope
of being posthumously reunited with those lost to death is said
to sustain many grievers who have a religious faith, but there is
little of that here. Rather the loss of one so loved seems to be
inconsolable. But in a later canto Tennyson speaks to a new
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Experiences
Friendship Viewed
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174
It has been well said that no single other person can meet all
one’s needs and interests, which reinforces this point. The
problem this raises is that it frustrates any attempt to give a
single neat definition of friendship. The opportunity it offers is
that friendship can be explained by examples, so that by
drawing from discussions of friendship and cases of it one can
illustrate its various aspects, and see how they reveal through
the veil of differences one of the supremest of the values that
make life worth living. That is why we have to turn from the
abstractions of the philosophers to the makers of myth and
story, and the writers of history and its personal form, biog-
raphy, to have a chance of seeing individual pebbles in the
mosaic, so that when we step back to see the whole, even if we
do not see it differently, we see it true.
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Friendship Examined
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183
But if friends are one single self, then anything done for the
other’s good is ipso facto done for one’s own good. Other-
interest is self-interest; it is not the friend but oneself for whom
one acts. When an argument collapses into absurdity as this
does, one sees that it is of course not what is intended; but it is
the result of taking the ‘another self’ trope too seriously. The
very idea of a bond, of sharing, of giving, of mutuality, is
predicated on the idea of a duality or more: it seems essential
to friendship that it should be a relationship between ‘Others’.
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192
relates to men and women in the courting age and that part of
adulthood where sexual interest might be aroused by propin-
quity or intimacy; no one thinks this of the very young or the
very old, where it is perfectly obvious that such friendships are
common.
There are at least two assumptions embedded here. One is
that if a relationship is sexual, it is not a friendship. This is an
assumption denied in passing often enough in the foregoing.
The other is that if a relationship is a friendship, it is not
sexual. ‘We are just good friends,’ a publicity-shy celebrity
couple might say when speculation arises because they are seen
together often; they are trading on this second assumption.
If one thinks that there is a distinction without a difference
here, consider: many relationships begin as attractions, and
develop into romantic affairs, these days usually with physical
intimacy as a standard and significant part of them. As the
couple come to know and depend upon each other more, still
with the attraction and sexual elements central, they come to
have the very features of a relationship which define friendship.
Even the most energetic of lovers in the honeymoon phase
might pause to eat or take a walk or have a conversation: in
those intervals what connects them is what connects friends.
Why not accept that they are friends too? Of course the ‘too’
is important: they are not only friends; and it is true that
generally the term is reserved for the only case. But it need not
be, and when it is said of lovers that they are good friends too,
the implication is that they are (as the phrase has it) good
together.
And looking at the relationship from the other end, we
note that the reason for thinking that if ‘they are friends’ is an
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202
Introduction
1. Vera Brittain, Testament of Friendship, p. 2.
2. Ibid. p. 10.
3 Cicero De amicitia
1. Cicero De amicitia iv.18.
2. W. A. Falconer Cicero, Vol. XX Loeb Classical Library, London,
1929, p. 106.
3. Cicero De amicitia iv.15.
4. Ibid. iv.18.
5. Ibid. iv.19.
6. Ibid. iv.19–20.
7. Ibid. vi.20.
8. Ibid. vi.21.
9. Ibid. vi.22.
10. Ibid.
11. Ibid. vii.23.
12. Ibid. vii.24.
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205
5 Renaissance Friendship
1. According to Frazer in The Golden Bough, the Virgin Mary is the
successor to the virgin goddess Diana, worshipped at Aricia near
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209
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212
9 Friendship Examined
1. Anthony Price makes play of those in relation to his own twin
brother in connection with Aristotle’s remark. See Love and
Friendship in Plato and Aristotle, Acknowledgements, Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1994.
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