Force is as pitiless to the man who possesses it, or thinks he

The words of Simone Weil—“Force is as pitiless to the man who possesses it, or thinks he does, as it is to its victims; the second it crushes, the first it intoxicates. The truth is, nobody really possesses it.”—echo like the tolling of a grave bell across the centuries. She speaks not of a passing moment, but of a law as old as war itself: that force, like fire, devours all who touch it. To its victims it brings destruction, but to those who wield it, it brings delusion. The conqueror believes himself to be master, but in truth he is enslaved to the very power he unleashes. Force is not a possession—it is a tempest, and those who call it theirs are already carried away by its winds.

The ancients knew this danger. Homer sang of Achilles, whose wrath shook the fields of Troy. The young hero believed that his strength was his to command, but in truth, it mastered him. His rage burned brighter than his reason, and though his enemies fell, his own heart was consumed with bitterness, grief, and ruin. Thus, Weil’s words remind us: the intoxication of force blinds the wielder, turning victory into vanity and triumph into chains.

In history’s cruel theater, one need only look to Napoleon. Crowned in glory, master of empires, he believed himself to hold force in his hand. Yet each conquest only deepened his thirst; each victory was not an end, but a narcotic, driving him toward the snows of Russia and the desolation of defeat. He who seemed to possess the world discovered that he had never possessed anything at all—not even himself. The intoxication of power led him, step by step, to exile and silence.

And what of the victims? They suffer the weight of force in flesh and bone, in chains and ruin. They are crushed, and their cries seem lost to the void. Yet Weil’s insight pierces deeper: those who wield force are also its victims, though in another way. Their humanity is diminished, their clarity darkened, their compassion eroded. The conquered lose their freedom, but the conqueror loses his soul.

The truth—as Weil says with piercing clarity—is that nobody possesses force. It is not a treasure that can be held, nor a tool that can be mastered. It is a torrent, flowing through the hands of men and nations, leaving wreckage wherever it passes. To claim mastery over it is to deceive oneself. Just as a man cannot command the sea but only ride its waves for a season, so too the mighty cannot command force. It carries them until it drowns them.

The lesson, then, is one of humility and vigilance. Seek not to exalt yourself through domination, nor to measure greatness by power. Recognize that force is not strength, but slavery. True power lies not in the ability to crush, but in the discipline to refrain, in the wisdom to choose restraint over intoxication. Remember that compassion, justice, and truth outlast armies, while the empires of violence crumble into dust.

Therefore, take these actions: cultivate self-mastery before you seek to master others. Guard your heart against the seduction of domination, for it whispers sweetly but leaves ruin behind. When you see force rising in the world, stand apart from its intoxication; be the voice of clarity when others are drunk on victory. For the glory of force is fleeting, but the strength of truth, justice, and mercy is eternal. In this way, you will not be possessed by the tempest, but anchored in what endures.