Choose silence of all virtues, for by it you hear other men's

Hear the voice of George Bernard Shaw, dramatist and sage, who proclaimed with piercing clarity: “Choose silence of all virtues, for by it you hear other men’s imperfections, and conceal your own.” This is no light counsel, but a wisdom older than kings and prophets, a truth written in the hearts of those who have listened more than they have spoken. Shaw’s words remind us that the tongue is both a weapon and a snare, and that the mightiest shield of wisdom is often the silence that restrains it.

The ancients knew this power well. The philosopher Pythagoras required his disciples to remain silent for years before they could speak in his presence, for he understood that wisdom is not born from noise but from listening. To choose silence is to open the ear of the soul; it is to hear the follies, the imperfections, and the vanity of others without adding one’s own to the chorus. By restraint, one gathers knowledge. By stillness, one grows strong. Just as the sea conceals its depths in calm, so too a wise man conceals his weakness in quiet.

Consider the story of Abraham Lincoln. In meetings of his cabinet, he was known to listen more than he spoke. When others argued fiercely, he would sit in long silence, weighing their words, discerning their errors, and measuring his own thoughts. By concealing his impulses, he revealed his strength. His enemies often underestimated him, but his allies came to revere his patience. In the furnace of civil war, it was this habit of silence that allowed him to judge wisely, to guide a divided nation, and to endure storms that would have broken lesser men.

Yet silence is not cowardice, nor is it emptiness. It is the chosen restraint of the strong, the hidden blade of the discerning. Words once spoken cannot be recalled, but words unspoken can yet be shaped, refined, or discarded. To speak in haste is to reveal one’s imperfections; to hold one’s peace is to cloak them until wisdom dictates their unveiling. Thus, Shaw calls us to master not the art of endless speech, but the art of sacred restraint.

But beware, for silence is a double-edged virtue. It can conceal truth as well as folly, justice as well as weakness. The wise man chooses silence not to hide forever, but to strike at the right moment, with words measured and weighty. The sword kept in its sheath shines brighter when drawn with purpose. So too the word withheld shines more brightly when released with intention. Silence is not the absence of voice; it is the sharpening of voice for its rightful hour.

The lesson is thus: in your dealings with others, let silence be your first companion. Hear before you speak; weigh before you answer. Observe the flaws of men, not to mock them, but to learn where you yourself must be cautious. Conceal your own weaknesses, not in deceit, but in discipline, until you have mastered them. In this way, you will grow in wisdom, and your words, when they do come forth, will strike with the force of truth and not the emptiness of noise.

Practical actions follow this path. When tempted to answer in anger, pause and be silent. When pressed to reveal more than is wise, conceal with quietness. Practice listening—not with impatience, but with attention—for in the careless words of others lie maps of their hearts, their desires, and their imperfections. And above all, cultivate a discipline of speech, where your words are few, deliberate, and strong. For the man who commands his tongue commands his destiny.

Thus let Shaw’s words endure as a teaching: choose silence above the clamor of vanity, for it guards your soul, reveals the truth of others, and clothes your own imperfections with dignity. In a world drowning in noise, the man of silence is the one whose voice, when it finally sounds, will echo with power across the ages.