Be at war with your vices, at peace with your neighbors, and let

Benjamin Franklin, sage of the American Enlightenment and father of practical wisdom, once declared: “Be at war with your vices, at peace with your neighbors, and let every new year find you a better man.” These words, simple yet mighty, carry the power of a creed by which a person may order their life. Within them are three commands, each like a pillar: discipline against one’s inner flaws, harmony with those around us, and constant striving for self-improvement. Franklin, a man who lived by resolutions and maxims, here distilled the art of living into a rhythm of battle, peace, and renewal.

The first command—“Be at war with your vices”—reminds us that the greatest enemy is not found on distant fields, but within the chambers of our own hearts. To fight greed, pride, laziness, anger, and deceit requires vigilance as fierce as any soldier’s on the battlefield. Franklin himself created a chart of thirteen virtues and marked daily whether he had succeeded or failed, as if keeping score in an eternal war against his own weaknesses. He knew that no empire can stand if it is rotted by corruption within, and no soul can prosper if it refuses to resist its own shadows.

The second command—“at peace with your neighbors”—calls us to recognize that life among men is built upon community, trust, and concord. Franklin, as diplomat, inventor, and civic leader, understood that strife among neighbors wastes strength and corrodes society. Consider the founding of the United States itself, which demanded compromise among rival colonies and personalities. Without peace among neighbors, the Revolution might have crumbled into petty quarrels. Thus, Franklin instructs us to cultivate patience, forgiveness, and goodwill, for the war we wage within must not spill outward in needless conflict.

The third command—“let every new year find you a better man”—is the crown of the teaching. Time is a river that flows unceasingly, and every year torn from the calendar is an invitation to growth. Franklin urges us not to drift, but to rise. To let the year pass without change is to waste it; to emerge better is to honor it. The ancient Stoics, too, spoke of this: Marcus Aurelius wrote in his Meditations that each day we awaken with a chance to improve ourselves, to become more just, more disciplined, more compassionate. Franklin echoes this ancient wisdom, binding it to the cycles of the year, so that each turning of the seasons becomes a summons to self-renewal.

History offers us many who lived by such principles. Think of Abraham Lincoln, who battled his inner melancholy (his vice), yet strove for peace with rivals—even placing them in his cabinet—and grew year by year into the man who could hold a fractured nation together. His life was not marked by sudden transformation, but by steady growth into greater wisdom and compassion. Like Franklin’s words, Lincoln’s life teaches us that true greatness is not a gift, but a discipline of constant betterment.

The lesson is clear: life requires both battle and peace. We must fight against what is corrupt within ourselves, but extend peace to those around us. And above all, we must not remain stagnant, for every year lost to idleness is a page unwritten in the book of our destiny. The call is not to perfection but to progress: to emerge from each year a little wiser, a little kinder, a little stronger.

Practical action flows easily from this wisdom. At the dawn of each year, resolve not only to set lofty goals, but to identify your vices and wage war upon them. Seek reconciliation with those you have wronged, and cultivate harmony in your community. Then ask yourself: “What can I do to ensure that next year, I will not be the same man, but a better one?” Whether through study, service, or discipline, build your life upward, stone upon stone.

So, children of tomorrow, carry Franklin’s words as a shield and guide: war against vice, peace with others, progress within yourself. This is the path of the wise. Walk it, and each new year will not be a burden of time lost, but a triumph of time redeemed.