It is important to our friends to believe that we are

“It is important to our friends to believe that we are unreservedly frank with them, and important to friendship that we are not.”
Thus wrote Mignon McLaughlin, the keen observer of the human soul, whose wit hid beneath it a profound understanding of human nature. In this paradoxical statement lies a truth subtle and timeless: that friendship, though founded on honesty, survives through grace. For though our friends must believe us to be frank—that is, open and sincere—it is often mercy, not candor, that preserves the harmony of hearts. There are truths that enlighten, and there are truths that wound; wisdom lies in knowing which to speak and which to keep veiled in silence.

McLaughlin, writing in the twentieth century, was a journalist and essayist who looked deeply into the quiet ironies of human relationships. Her insight was not that of a cynic, but of one who understood that human love is both fragile and sacred. She saw that frankness, though virtuous, can be destructive when it becomes untempered by compassion. Her quote is not an invitation to deceit, but a recognition that truth must be delivered with tenderness, for friendship thrives not merely on truth, but on trust—and trust is made of both honesty and restraint.

To be unreservedly frank—to bare every thought without filter or care—may feel noble, but it is often selfish. For in such brutal honesty, we satisfy our own sense of integrity while disregarding the feelings of another. Friendship demands something higher: the wisdom to balance truth with kindness, to discern what serves love and what serves pride. There are moments when silence guards affection better than speech, and gentleness speaks louder than the naked truth. To honor a friend is to protect their heart, even as we remain sincere in spirit.

Consider the example of Abraham Lincoln, whose wisdom in friendship and leadership alike lay in his capacity for measured truth. When faced with conflict or betrayal, he often said, “I do not like that man; I must get to know him better.” He understood that harsh judgment, spoken too soon, could sever bonds and close the door to understanding. He was frank in his convictions, yet merciful in his words. It was this rare balance that earned him both respect and enduring friendship. In Lincoln’s way, we see the essence of McLaughlin’s teaching: truth without kindness divides, but truth softened by compassion endures.

The ancients, too, spoke of this wisdom. Aristotle wrote that friendship requires virtue, but also tact—that to love another truly is to wish their good, not to parade our own righteousness. He knew that the delicate art of friendship rests not in saying everything, but in saying enough. Even the philosopher who revered truth above all else recognized that when friendship and truth collide, the wise man must find a way to honor both. Thus, McLaughlin’s modern insight echoes the voices of the old masters: honesty must be tempered by humanity, lest it destroy what it seeks to protect.

In daily life, we encounter this truth again and again. A friend confides a fear, and though we see their folly, we choose comfort before correction. Another errs, and we wait until the wound of failure has cooled before speaking of it. This is not deceit—it is discernment, the gentle art of knowing when words heal and when they harm. To be truly frank, we must first be truly kind; for words spoken without love, even if true, are but weapons wielded in the guise of virtue.

Let all who seek wisdom remember this: friendship is a living thing, delicate as flame and enduring as oak. It needs the warmth of honesty but also the shelter of compassion. Be open with your friends, yes—but not unguarded. Let them feel your sincerity, yet spare them needless pain. Speak truth when it uplifts, and hold silence when truth would wound without purpose. This is not hypocrisy; it is the highest form of love—the love that sees beyond the moment to the lasting good of another soul.

Thus, Mignon McLaughlin’s paradox reveals itself as a harmony of opposites: frankness and forbearance, truth and tenderness. To believe we are wholly transparent comforts our friends, for it assures them of trust. But to know when to withhold, when to soften, when to protect—that is the secret virtue that keeps friendship alive. For as the wise ancients taught, not all truths are meant to be spoken, but all love must be guarded with care. And in this balance, friendship finds its truest strength: a union of honesty and mercy, of light and warmth, that no storm can extinguish.