Never feel remorse for what you have thought about your wife; she

Hear, O listeners, the words of Jean Rostand, the French philosopher and biologist whose wit carried the sting of truth: “Never feel remorse for what you have thought about your wife; she has thought much worse things about you.” Though cloaked in humor, this saying hides a deeper wisdom about the human heart, about love’s imperfections, and the quiet storms that dwell beneath the roof of every long companionship. It is not a sneer at marriage, but a mirror to its reality—a reminder that even in love’s sanctuary, the mind remains wild and ungoverned.

Rostand lived in an age when the intellect flourished alongside irony. A thinker of science and soul, he observed that even the noblest bonds—marriage, friendship, family—are not immune to private thoughts of frustration, envy, or resentment. His words are born from that clear-eyed understanding: that to love someone is not to be free of judgment, but to forgive the small cruelties of thought. Thus, he speaks not of cynicism, but of mercy—of the wisdom to laugh at one’s own pettiness and to accept the shared humanity of imperfection.

For in every union, no matter how tender, there are moments of anger unspoken, of disappointment quietly borne. The mind rebels even as the heart remains loyal. The husband may think his wife unkind or demanding; the wife, in her turn, may see in him selfishness or folly. Yet these thoughts, fleeting and fierce, do not destroy love unless they are fed with bitterness. Rostand’s jest cuts to this truth: we are all guilty of unkind thoughts, yet in recognizing this, we learn compassion. What we think in secret, others think in silence. The wise learn to smile at this shared frailty instead of despairing over it.

Consider, for example, the story of Eleanor and Franklin Roosevelt. Their marriage was far from the idyllic portrait seen by the world. They wounded each other deeply through neglect and betrayal, and yet, in the end, they remained bound—not out of convenience, but out of purpose. Though their hearts often wandered apart, they forged a partnership that changed nations. If Rostand had known them, he might have said: even when thoughts turn sharp, the true test of love lies not in purity, but in perseverance. For both Eleanor and Franklin harbored their private judgments—perhaps even contempt—but from that imperfection rose greatness, proving that love endures not through perfection, but through understanding.

In Rostand’s humor, we also find humility. He teaches us that to love is to forgive what cannot be controlled—the flicker of irritation, the silent reproach, the hidden sigh. Marriage, in his eyes, is not a temple of angels but a school for saints-in-training. It is where patience is forged, where one learns to laugh at the folly of oneself and the other. To “not feel remorse” is not to dismiss one’s faults, but to see them with gentleness, knowing the other has done the same. Thus, his jest becomes a kind of mercy—a shared truce between imperfect beings learning to live as one.

Let us then take from his words a lesson in humility and humor. When irritation stirs the heart, remember that your partner, too, has seen your shadows. When thoughts turn unkind, do not dwell in shame, but transform them into kindness through self-awareness. Speak less in anger, and when you must think darkly, let it pass like a cloud over the sun. For in the end, love does not demand purity of thought—it demands the courage to keep choosing the other, despite those thoughts.

So, my children of the heart, learn to laugh at yourselves as Rostand did. For laughter is the balm of endurance, and understanding is its twin. Remember this: in marriage, as in life, forgiveness is richer than perfection, and the truest love is that which sees clearly, yet loves deeply still. Then, and only then, will you find peace—not in never thinking ill, but in always returning to love after you do.