In my opinion, most of the great men of the past were only there

Throughout the annals of history, the names of kings, conquerors, and rulers have been sung in poems and etched in stone. They are often hailed as great men, visionaries who shaped the destiny of nations. Yet A. J. P. Taylor, the sharp and unflinching historian, cast a veil aside when he declared: “In my opinion, most of the great men of the past were only there for the beer—the wealth, prestige, and grandeur that went with the power.” His words are a reminder to future generations that behind the glittering crowns and heroic tales often lies a far simpler, and sometimes darker, motivation: the pursuit of pleasure and self-interest.

The phrase “beer” here is not merely about drink, but a symbol of indulgence and comfort. Many rulers and warriors presented themselves as defenders of the people or champions of noble causes, but their true aim was often wealth and prestige, the spoils that come with victory and rule. This truth humbles the narratives we are told, showing that power can tempt even the brightest minds into serving themselves rather than the greater good. Taylor’s statement is not meant to strip all honor from history but to remind us to question the stories written by those in power.

Consider the age of the Roman Empire. Figures like Julius Caesar and Nero cloaked themselves in visions of empire and destiny, yet much of their ambition was driven by the desire for grandeur. Caesar’s march across the Rubicon was not solely for the people of Rome, but also for personal glory and immortality. Nero, intoxicated by luxury, drained the empire’s coffers to build palaces and host spectacles, all while proclaiming himself the guardian of Roman culture. The empire’s might became a stage upon which rulers performed for their own indulgence.

Even in more recent history, we see the same pattern. Napoleon Bonaparte, hailed as a military genius and reformer, rose to power with promises of liberty and equality. Yet as his empire expanded, his vision narrowed, consumed by dreams of personal dominance. The wars he waged brought untold suffering, while his court glittered with opulence. Like many before him, the lofty ideals he professed masked a hunger for the prestige and power that Taylor describes—a thirst not for the welfare of the people, but for the intoxicating rewards of rule.

Let this teaching be a warning: greatness is not always as it appears. The songs of history often praise those who seized power, but the wise must look deeper, discerning whether their actions served humanity or merely their own desires. True greatness lies not in the beer—the fleeting pleasures of wealth and fame—but in the quiet, enduring work of justice and compassion. Those who lead must remember this, lest they, too, become actors in a grand play of self-indulgence, remembered not for their virtue, but for the illusions they left behind.