A bachelor is a man who comes to work each morning from a

The wit of Sholom Aleichem, cloaked in humor yet sharpened by truth, shines in his saying: “A bachelor is a man who comes to work each morning from a different direction.” Though delivered with jest, these words reveal not only the wandering ways of the unmarried man but also a profound reflection on freedom, restlessness, and the human yearning for stability. For in the bachelor’s changing path lies both delight and danger, both liberty and loneliness.

He begins with the image of the bachelor, a man untethered, beholden to no one. His mornings are unpredictable, his nights unsettled, his footsteps weaving through the city from one abode to another. To some, this picture is enviable—a life of freedom, adventure, and constant variety. But to Aleichem, the humor hides a quiet observation: without an anchor, one drifts. The bachelor does not come from home, but from elsewhere, from anywhere, from nowhere in particular.

The phrase “a different direction” is more than geography—it is a symbol of a life without rootedness. The married man rises from a fixed dwelling, returning each day to hearth and family; his journey is straight, his purpose clear. The bachelor, by contrast, is like a leaf carried by the wind, changing course with each gust. Aleichem’s humor is gentle, yet it reveals an ancient truth: freedom without stability can become emptiness. For a man who never commits to one path may find himself always wandering, never arriving.

History offers us examples of both kinds of men. Diogenes the Cynic, who lived in a barrel and rejected family ties, became a wanderer of philosophy, free but forever unsettled, mocking the settled lives of others. By contrast, Marcus Aurelius, emperor and stoic, found his strength in balance—rooted in duty, family, and responsibility, even as he wrestled with the burdens of empire. Both were great in their way, but Aleichem suggests that the wandering bachelor’s greatness often lies more in laughter than in legacy.

Yet we must not dismiss the bachelor entirely, for in his freedom there is also a spark of vitality. The wandering path allows for discovery, for unexpected encounters, for the freshness of a life not locked into routine. The bachelor may lack stability, but he also avoids the stagnation of habit. His life, like the morning’s changing light, is never the same twice. Aleichem, master of irony, knew this too—that the bachelor’s folly was also his charm.

The lesson, then, is not to despise either life but to see clearly what each offers. Freedom without roots may bring novelty, but it may also breed loneliness. Stability without variety may bring security, but it may also stifle the spirit. The wise must seek balance—root themselves deeply enough to have a true home, yet wander widely enough to know the breadth of life.

Therefore, children of the future, hear this teaching: laugh at the bachelor’s wandering, but also learn from it. Do not let your life be so rootless that you forget where you belong, nor so rigid that you never taste adventure. Choose your path with care, and walk it with joy. For whether you come from one direction or many, what matters most is that your steps lead toward meaning, not merely movement.

Thus, in Sholom Aleichem’s jest we find enduring wisdom: a bachelor may come from many directions, but the truly fulfilled come from a place called home. To wander is human, but to belong is divine. And the art of life lies in knowing when to roam, and when to return.