My last public performance for money was in 1967. For free, it

“My last public performance for money was in 1967. For free, it was 1972, with the exception of two little one-shot, one-song things. But that's just for friends, out of friendship for the people involved, and also because it was fun.” Thus spoke Tom Lehrer, the satirical poet and mathematician of the modern age, whose wit cut through hypocrisy as cleanly as a blade through silk. Beneath the humor of this remark lies not mere recollection, but a profound statement about art, integrity, and the sacred nature of friendship. Lehrer, who had once filled concert halls with laughter and truth, chose to withdraw from the stage not out of bitterness, but from clarity of soul. He reminds us that the greatest acts in life are not always those performed for applause or reward, but those given freely, for joy and affection alone.

The origin of this reflection lies in the life of a man who valued conscience over fame. In the 1950s and 60s, Tom Lehrer’s sharp songs—mocking politics, war, and human folly—made him a legend of satire. He was beloved for his courage to laugh at the serious and to speak truth wrapped in melody. Yet at the height of his success, when others might have grasped at greater glory, Lehrer stepped away. He turned from public stages to private peace. In this quote, he looks back upon that choice without regret, explaining that when he did perform again, it was not for wealth or recognition, but “for friends, out of friendship for the people involved, and also because it was fun.” His words reveal a man who had learned that the worth of a deed is not in its payment, but in its purpose.

There is something deeply ancient in this sentiment. The sages of old spoke of the difference between actions done for gain and those done for virtue. Aristotle taught that the highest good is not utility, but excellence pursued for its own sake. In the same way, Lehrer’s decision to perform only “for fun” and “for friendship” is the act of one who has transcended the marketplace of vanity. His art, once a profession, became again what it had been in its purest form—a gift, given freely, as the artist’s heart demanded. In this, Lehrer resembles the poets of Greece or the philosophers of China, who offered their wisdom not for silver, but for the joy of sharing truth with their companions.

The heart of this quote, however, lies in friendship. Lehrer reminds us that not all labors need to be compensated, and not all performances belong to the crowd. There is a sacred intimacy in giving one’s talent to a friend, asking for nothing but the pleasure of giving. In an age that measures worth in profit, he stands as a quiet voice of defiance. To do something for friendship, or simply for fun, is to return to innocence—to create not for advantage, but for connection. It is a reminder that joy and love are reasons enough. Such moments—singing a song for a friend, lending one’s gift without thought of return—become the purest kind of memory, the kind that outlives all applause.

Consider the ancient story of Diogenes and Antisthenes, philosophers of the Cynic school. When Diogenes found his teacher being mocked for his poverty, he stood beside him, declaring, “Mock me as well, for I share his philosophy.” He sought no gain, only the honor of companionship. In that act, he embodied the same spirit Lehrer describes: loyalty not measured by reward, but by devotion. Both men found joy in a shared pursuit of truth, not because the world would praise them, but because friendship had made their purpose meaningful. Lehrer’s choice to perform only for his friends, “out of friendship and fun,” is cut from the same cloth—a life guided not by ambition, but by authenticity.

In Lehrer’s simple confession, there is also a profound wisdom about freedom. The man who no longer performs for money, who no longer needs the approval of the multitude, becomes master of his art and his life. He is free to act not out of compulsion, but out of love. This is the kind of freedom that sages sought, the freedom that cannot be bought or sold. When Lehrer gave his music to his friends, it was an act of liberation—a return to the joy that first called him to create. And in that joy, he rediscovered what so many lose when art becomes career: the pure delight of doing something simply because it brings happiness.

Let this, then, be the lesson: that our truest work is not always the one that earns us gold, but the one that gives our spirit peace. Do what you love not for applause, but because it fills your heart with light. Give of yourself to your friends without measure or expectation, for friendship is the only audience that truly understands. When you act from kindness, when you labor from joy, when you create from love, you mirror the gods of old—whose gifts to the world were born not from necessity, but from overflowing abundance.

For as Tom Lehrer reminds us, the worth of what we give is not measured in coin, but in sincerity. The songs sung for friends will echo longer than the ones sung for crowds; the laughter shared for joy will endure beyond the clamor of fame. To live thus—to work from love, and to give from friendship—is to live nobly. It is to live freely. And in that freedom, one discovers the oldest truth of all: that what we do for joy, and for friendship, is what lasts forever.