A bachelor's life is no life for a single man.

In the wry and paradoxical words of Samuel Goldwyn, the great film producer and wit of the early twentieth century, we find a truth hidden within humor: “A bachelor’s life is no life for a single man.” Though at first it sounds like a riddle, it is, in truth, a reflection on the human condition — a meditation on solitude, love, and the quiet yearning of the heart. Goldwyn, known for his clever turns of phrase, speaks here not as a philosopher of abstraction but as a man who understood that success and laughter are hollow without companionship. Beneath the jest lies a message as old as time: that the life lived alone may be free, but it is never full.

To be a bachelor is, in one sense, to possess freedom — the freedom to act, to wander, to choose one’s own path without restraint. But as Goldwyn’s words suggest, this freedom carries with it a hidden emptiness. “A bachelor’s life,” he says, “is no life for a single man,” for solitude, when prolonged, turns from liberty into loneliness. The bachelor may dine well, travel far, and sleep in peace, yet when the night deepens and the heart grows still, he discovers that the walls echo with silence. What Goldwyn reminds us of, in his own witty way, is that independence is sweetest when it can be shared, and that even the most self-sufficient soul hungers for the warmth of belonging.

The ancients spoke often of this longing. In the philosophy of Aristotle, man was described as a “social animal,” destined not to live in isolation but within the bonds of family and community. Even the stoic sages — those who preached detachment and self-mastery — did not deny the sacredness of companionship. The Greek poet Hesiod wrote that a man who lives without a partner lives “half a life,” and indeed, across all ages, humanity has understood that love, in its many forms, gives shape to existence. Goldwyn’s paradox is a modern echo of this ancient wisdom: the bachelor’s life may appear complete, but it lacks the essence that makes life meaningful — connection.

Consider the story of Cincinnatus, the Roman farmer who was called from his plow to save his city. Though he held great power, he yearned only to return home to his family, to the soil and the companionship that nourished him. His glory on the battlefield was fleeting, but his peace among his loved ones was eternal. Even in triumph, he understood that greatness is measured not by what one commands, but by whom one returns to. So too does Goldwyn’s jest carry this truth — that the man who lives only for himself, however successful, has not yet discovered the joy of being part of something larger than his own comfort.

It is tempting, in modern life, to glorify solitude — to see independence as the highest virtue. Yet Samuel Goldwyn, a man of Hollywood’s golden age, had seen what loneliness could do even amid crowds. The laughter of the studio could not fill the silence of the heart. To be a bachelor, in his view, was not a curse, but neither was it a paradise. It was an unfinished story, a melody waiting for harmony. For as long as the heart beats, it seeks another rhythm to join it — the music of shared laughter, shared sorrow, and shared living. A single man may survive alone, but he does not truly live until his life is entwined with another’s.

At its core, Goldwyn’s quote is not about marriage alone, but about companionship and meaning. It reminds us that human fulfillment lies not in self-sufficiency, but in relationship — in the bonds of friendship, family, and love that transform existence from mere survival into joy. The bachelor’s life is a metaphor for the life of detachment — one that may be rich in possessions but poor in purpose. To “live” fully is to give oneself, to share time, affection, and spirit with others.

The lesson, then, is both simple and eternal: no one is made to live entirely alone. To live deeply, one must open the heart — to love, to friendship, to connection. Do not mistake solitude for strength, nor freedom for fulfillment. Seek, instead, the balance between independence and intimacy, between selfhood and service. In practice, this means cherishing those who walk beside you, tending to the bonds of kinship and care as one tends to a fire that keeps the soul warm.

So, remember the wit and wisdom of Samuel Goldwyn, whose paradox speaks across time. A bachelor’s life — the life of self-centered solitude — is indeed “no life” for one who longs to be whole. For the heart of man was not forged for isolation but for communion, and though the lone traveler may roam far, only love — in its many forms — will teach him the meaning of home. To live, then, is not merely to exist, but to belong, and in belonging, to find the truest measure of life itself.