It is bitter to lose a friend to evil, before one loses him to

In the haunting words of Mary Renault, the great chronicler of ancient souls, there resounds a grief deeper than mourning: “It is bitter to lose a friend to evil, before one loses him to death.” Here, she speaks not of the ordinary sorrow that comes with mortality, but of a more piercing wound—the loss of a living heart to corruption, hatred, or darkness. For death, though cruel, is part of nature’s order. But when the goodness of a friend dies while their body still walks the earth, it is a kind of unnatural death, one that leaves the soul mourning a ghost that still breathes.

Renault’s words arise from her lifelong meditation on the human spirit. In her tales of ancient Greece, she painted heroes not merely in their glory, but in their moral struggle—their wrestling with temptation, pride, and betrayal. Her quote reflects that same tragic wisdom: that to see a friend whom you love descend into evil is to witness the death of something sacred. It is the slow undoing of shared trust, of laughter, of the tender faith that binds two souls. Death ends the body; evil poisons the soul. And so the friend you once knew becomes unrecognizable, as though a shadow has taken his place.

The ancients knew this pain well. In the Iliad, Achilles experiences a grief that transcends the battlefield when his dearest companion, Patroclus, is slain. Yet imagine a loss more terrible still—not by sword, but by spirit. To lose a friend not to fate but to wickedness—that is to stand helpless as the light you once cherished turns against you. This is the pain of those who have watched good men succumb to power, who have seen kind hearts hardened by envy, or truth twisted by ambition. Such losses do not merely sadden; they shatter one’s faith in human constancy.

Consider the story of Brutus and Julius Caesar. They were once bound by friendship, shared vision, and admiration. But when fear and political ambition corrupted Brutus, he raised the dagger against the very man who loved him most. Caesar’s dying words, “Et tu, Brute?”, echo through time not only as the cry of a man betrayed, but as the recognition that evil had claimed his friend before death ever did. The wound that killed Caesar was physical, but the wound that killed Brutus’s honor—and the friendship between them—was moral. Renault’s words could well have been written for that moment: the bitter recognition that the death of goodness is the deepest death of all.

Yet even in this sorrow, there is wisdom. For to mourn such a loss is to affirm that goodness matters. If betrayal did not wound, then friendship would have no worth. When Renault calls this loss “bitter,” she acknowledges the cost of love—the risk that comes with giving one’s heart to another. But she also implies that it is better to love and to grieve than to never love at all. For only the heart that has known virtue in others can feel the anguish of its loss. The pain of losing a friend to evil is, paradoxically, proof of one’s own steadfastness to the good.

What, then, is the lesson? It is this: guard the light within your soul, and do not let bitterness, jealousy, or fear lure you from it. If ever you see a friend straying toward shadow, do not abandon them at once—reach out, remind them of the goodness they once embodied. But if they will not return, you must learn to let go with grace, to keep your own spirit pure. Do not let their fall drag you into despair. For it is better to stand alone in the light than to walk with company into darkness.

So, my child of tomorrow, remember Renault’s wisdom. Death will come to all, and we must bear it with courage—but the death of virtue is one we must resist with every breath. Treasure your friends not merely for their laughter or their presence, but for the goodness that lives in them. And if ever that goodness falters, do not meet it with hatred, but with sorrow and resolve. For the world will tempt many hearts, and not all will remain true—but as long as you yourself choose the path of honor, no evil can claim you. And that, in the end, is the greatest act of friendship you can offer—to be the steadfast light that others may still find their way back to.