Of the Inconvenience of Greatness

We see the crowns and the processions and the deference, and we imagine that power is its own reward. But consider what power actually requires of the man who holds it. He must distrust his friends, because their friendship is polluted by his position — what they say to him is shaped by what they want from him, and even the most honest among them cannot help adjusting their opinions slightly in the direction of safety. He must distrust his enemies, which is obvious. He must, in the end, distrust his own judgment, because no one will tell him when it is wrong. The king lives in a hall of mirrors, all of which are flattering.

I have been in the service of great men, and I have noticed that what they most lack is not counsel — they have counsel in abundance — but a single person who will speak plainly without a personal interest in the answer. I could sometimes be that person, and I valued the moments when I was permitted to be. But the great man always returned, after the plain-spoken conversation, to the comfortable counsel of men who knew their positions depended on his contentment. The isolation of power is not accidental; it is structural.

Kings are alone in the middle of crowds, and the crowd ensures the solitude.

For myself, I have no appetite for greatness of this kind. The tower I inhabit suits me exactly: high enough to see the countryside, private enough to think without interruption, modest enough that no one visits me for advantage. I have access to the great when they wish to use me, and I return to myself when the business is done. This seems to me the better arrangement. The powerful man envies the free man his independence; the free man occasionally envies the powerful man his importance — and then reflects on what the importance costs, and stops envying.