Friendship is a very taxing and arduous form of leisure activity.

In the reflective words of Mortimer Adler, the philosopher and teacher of wisdom, there lies a paradox that gleams with quiet truth: “Friendship is a very taxing and arduous form of leisure activity.” To the casual ear, the phrase seems almost contradictory—how can leisure be arduous, or friendship, that sweet refuge of the heart, be taxing? Yet Adler, like the sages of old, understood that the highest joys of the human soul are also those that demand the greatest labor. True friendship, he tells us, is not a pastime of idleness, but a sacred discipline—an art of the heart that calls for attention, patience, and moral strength.

The origin of Adler’s reflection rests in his lifelong dialogue with the classical thinkers—Aristotle, Cicero, and Aquinas—who saw friendship not as mere affection, but as a cornerstone of the good life. In his modern age of haste and distraction, Adler lamented that men had come to see friendship as effortless pleasure, a comfort that required no cultivation. But the ancients knew otherwise. Aristotle called friendship “one soul dwelling in two bodies,” a harmony that must be tuned with care. To reach that harmony, both souls must grow, correct one another, forgive, and persist. Thus, though friendship may dwell among laughter and leisure, its foundations are built upon discipline and virtue. Adler’s words remind us that what appears as leisure to the body is labor to the spirit.

For what is friendship, if not the most demanding of all relationships? It calls for honesty, where flattery would be easier; for loyalty, where selfishness would bring comfort; for compassion, when indifference would save one’s peace. It demands that one listen when weary, forgive when wounded, and stand firm when all others turn away. Such things do not come cheaply. They require time, humility, and the strength to bear another’s burdens as one’s own. And yet, paradoxically, it is in this arduous labor that the heart finds its deepest rest—for in serving a friend, we escape the prison of self.

Consider the tale of Damon and Pythias, told by the ancient Greeks. When Pythias was condemned to death by the tyrant Dionysius, he begged for time to settle his affairs, promising to return for execution. His friend Damon offered himself as hostage in his place. The tyrant, thinking no man so faithful, agreed. But Pythias returned, as promised, and Damon was freed. The tyrant, moved by the sight, cried out that he wished to be the third in their friendship. Here lies the essence of Adler’s truth: friendship is not idle companionship—it is sacrifice, trust, and endurance. Such devotion is no easy leisure; it is labor sanctified by love.

Yet, the word leisure itself holds a sacred meaning lost to many. In the ancient world, leisure—from the Greek scholē—did not mean idleness, but the time set apart for contemplation, virtue, and the cultivation of the soul. True leisure was not escape from effort, but the highest form of human activity: thinking deeply, living rightly, and nurturing one’s spirit in the company of kindred souls. Thus, when Adler calls friendship a form of leisure, he does not mean a pastime, but a discipline of the heart—a shared journey toward wisdom. And that, indeed, is taxing, for it asks of us our best selves.

Modern life often tempts us toward the shallow imitation of friendship—brief exchanges, convenient alliances, and comfort without cost. But Adler’s wisdom burns through the illusion: authentic friendship is not effortless, for it must endure misunderstanding, distance, and change. It is arduous, yes, but its difficulty is its glory. Like the polishing of a gem, its friction refines the soul. Only through effort does friendship become something eternal, something that nourishes both hearts long after laughter has faded.

Therefore, my child, take this lesson to heart: do not fear the labor of friendship. Give time to your companions, speak truth when silence would be easier, and stand with them not only in joy but in trial. Let your leisure be filled with the noble work of tending to human bonds, for it is there that your spirit will find its highest reward.

In the end, remember Mortimer Adler’s paradox as a sacred truth: that which is most taxing to the body may be most restful to the soul. For friendship, though it asks much of us, gives in return the peace that no idleness can offer—the peace of knowing that in a world of fleeting shadows, you have chosen to love, to labor, and to stand steadfast in the light of another’s trust.