A man must live like a great brilliant flame and burn as brightly

In the words of Boris Yeltsin, “A man must live like a great brilliant flame and burn as brightly as he can. In the end he burns out. But this is far better than a mean little flame.” Here speaks the soul of one who knew that the measure of life is not in its length, but in its intensity — not in how long we breathe, but in how deeply we dare to live. To burn brightly is to live fully, to love fiercely, to act boldly, and to face the world with all the fire that dwells within the human heart. Such a life may be brief in years, yet it leaves behind a trail of light that endures far longer than the body that bore it.

Yeltsin, born into a time of turmoil and change, lived not as a quiet ember but as a flame that dared to rise against the cold winds of history. His words echo the ancient belief that the soul, like fire, must consume itself in the act of creation. The brilliant flame is the symbol of passion, of courage, of self-sacrifice. It speaks of those who choose the fierce beauty of purpose over the dull comfort of safety. To burn out is not failure; it is fulfillment — the destiny of those who give themselves wholly to the task for which they were born.

In ages past, the ancients honored those who lived with this blazing spirit. Consider Alexander the Great, who conquered the known world before the age of thirty. His life was brief, yet it roared with such energy that the echoes of his deeds still thunder across the centuries. Alexander’s fire consumed him — yet who among us would call his flame “mean” or small? Better to burn out in glory than to live endlessly in mediocrity, for even the sun itself must set, but not before it has lit the heavens.

The mean little flame, by contrast, is the life of caution — the man who hides from risk, who fears pain more than he desires greatness. Such a life flickers quietly in the corner, never daring to rise, never daring to blaze. It is safe, yes — but safety is the enemy of transcendence. To live too carefully is to deny the divine spark within, that sacred fire which yearns to shape the world and illuminate the darkness. The ancients called this fire the daemon, the guiding spirit within every human being, urging us to become what we were meant to be. To silence it is to live as a shadow of oneself.

There is a truth both heroic and tragic in Yeltsin’s vision: all flames must one day fade. But this impermanence is what gives life its glory. The warrior who falls in battle, the artist who dies young, the leader who gives everything for his people — these souls burn brightly, and though their time is short, their light endures in the hearts of those they touch. The flame that consumes itself for others is never truly extinguished; it becomes the dawn for those who come after.

The lesson is clear: do not fear the cost of living passionately. Do not guard your energy so tightly that you never spend it on what truly matters. Life is not a treasure to hoard but a fire to kindle. To live as a great brilliant flame is to commit your heart to something beyond comfort — to pour your time, your gifts, and your courage into the service of creation, truth, or love. When the end comes, let your ashes bear witness that you lived as one aflame with purpose.

And so, children of the future, remember this: be the flame, not the ember. Burn brightly, even if the world cannot understand your light. Create while you can, love while your heart still beats, and stand boldly for what is right. Let your fire illuminate the path for others, and do not mourn when it begins to fade — for it is better to burn for a brief eternity than to live forever without ever truly shining.

Thus spoke the spirit of Yeltsin — and through his words, the eternal voice of all who lived not in the shadow of fear, but in the brilliance of their own burning.