I should do something about the cigarettes; I quite accept that

The words of Charles Kennedy — “I should do something about the cigarettes; I quite accept that it's bad for your health, but you know a moderate tipple is positively beneficial and, at certain times, absolutely essential.” — shimmer with humor and humility, yet beneath their levity lies a profound meditation on the balance between discipline and delight, between reason and the small pleasures that make life bearable. Kennedy, known for both his wit and his humanity, speaks not as a preacher of perfection but as a man acquainted with the struggle between vice and virtue — the eternal contest between what we know is right and what we feel we need.

His words belong to an age-old tradition that stretches back to the philosophers of antiquity — men who sought wisdom not in denial of life’s pleasures, but in moderation. The Greeks called it sophrosyne — the harmony of self-control and joy. They believed that virtue was not to reject the world, but to engage with it wisely. In this spirit, Kennedy’s comment is not a defense of excess, but a recognition that pleasure, when tempered by awareness, can nourish the soul as surely as restraint strengthens it. For what is life if stripped of all joy? And what is joy if it becomes one’s master?

The origin of this reflection can be found in Kennedy’s own life — a man who bore the burdens of public service while grappling with personal frailty. He was no stranger to the temptations that shadow those who live in the bright light of politics. His honesty, however, set him apart. Where others would hide weakness behind the armor of image, Kennedy spoke openly, often with self-deprecating humor, about his struggles with drinking and the pressures of leadership. In acknowledging his faults, he reminded the world that even the wise and the strong remain human — and that humility is itself a form of courage.

History, too, offers echoes of his sentiment. The Roman philosopher Seneca, advisor to emperors, warned that indulgence could destroy a man, yet he also admitted that an occasional cup of wine could “wash away the cares of the soul.” In ancient China, the poet Li Bai wrote verses under the moon, his wine cup in hand, finding in gentle intoxication the doorway to insight. Both men understood what Kennedy understood: that sometimes, in moderation, the spirit requires a small act of rebellion — not to destroy discipline, but to restore balance. Even restraint must rest, or it too becomes a prison.

But Kennedy’s humor carries another, deeper wisdom — that self-awareness is the first step to transformation. In admitting that “I should do something,” he does not glorify weakness, but names it. He brings to light what many conceal. For it is not sin that corrupts the soul, but denial; not weakness that destroys, but the refusal to face it. Thus, his remark becomes a mirror for every person who has known the quiet war between knowledge and desire. To accept one’s flaws is not to surrender to them, but to begin mastering them.

There is also a tenderness in his words — the understanding that life, with all its burdens, sometimes demands small mercies. The “moderate tipple,” as he calls it, is not only a metaphor for drink, but for all those moments of reprieve that help us endure the harshness of existence: a laugh amid sorrow, a song amid toil, a moment of stillness amid chaos. These are not indulgences; they are medicine for the spirit. Even the ancients, after long battles or hard labors, knew the sacredness of joy — the feast, the fire, the shared cup — for these restored their humanity after the strain of survival.

So, my children of the modern world, take heed of Kennedy’s lesson. Pursue balance, not perfection. Shun excess, but do not deny joy. Guard your health and mind, yet remember that laughter and warmth are also forms of healing. When you stumble, as all mortals do, meet your flaws with honesty, not shame. For in self-knowledge lies freedom, and in moderation lies mastery.

Thus, his light-hearted confession becomes an immortal teaching: that wisdom is not the absence of weakness, but the art of living wisely with it. A life too restrained becomes brittle, and a life too indulgent dissolves into ruin. But between these two, there lies the middle path — where the soul breathes, the heart forgives, and life, in all its imperfection, becomes something beautiful, tender, and deeply human.