One may know how to gain a victory, and know not how to use it.

The Spanish dramatist Pedro Calderón de la Barca once wrote, “One may know how to gain a victory, and know not how to use it.” In these words lies a truth as old as the battles of kings and the struggles of the soul. To win is not enough, for the crown of triumph is but a fleeting ornament if the victor does not know how to wield it. The earth has seen many conquerors who seized with great force, yet lost all in their blindness to govern what they had won. Thus Calderón teaches us that there is a chasm between the act of victory and the art of wisdom, and only those who bridge it become true masters of destiny.

Consider the fate of Alexander the Great. With unmatched skill he stormed across Asia, shattering empires and bending nations to his will. He knew well how to gain victory—his name became a terror, his armies unstoppable. Yet when the dust of conquest settled, he did not know how to use what he had seized. His empire, vast and glittering, had no root of governance, no steady foundation. It shattered upon his death, collapsing into the hands of quarreling generals. Here is Calderón’s lesson made flesh: a man may win the world in battle, yet if he lacks the wisdom of stewardship, his victories turn to dust.

The quote also speaks to the struggles within the heart. Many a soul wins a moment of triumph—whether by overcoming temptation, silencing an enemy, or securing a long-desired goal. Yet what use is such triumph if the spirit grows complacent, if the mind fails to channel the energy of that moment into lasting strength? Victory is not a resting place but a gate to greater responsibility. To rejoice in the prize without learning how to guard it is to invite ruin.

Calderón’s words burn with warning: victory without vision is emptiness. The Romans knew this truth, for they often sent a slave to whisper into the ear of the conquering general during his triumphal procession, “Remember you are mortal.” The warning was not merely against pride but against folly—the folly of thinking that winning the battle secures the peace. The greater burden comes after, when the victor must govern, must reconcile, must weave unity from the threads of division.

But let us not despair. For within this teaching lies also the call to wisdom. To those who fight their own struggles—in work, in ambition, in love—heed this: when you win, pause and ask, How shall I use this victory? If you achieve wealth, do not let it rot into greed, but turn it into generosity. If you gain knowledge, do not hoard it, but let it be a lamp for others. If you overcome an enemy, do not sow bitterness, but transform enmity into peace. Victory rightly used becomes the seed of greater triumphs.

One may look also to the example of Abraham Lincoln. He gained victory not by the sword but by patience, words, and resolve. When the Civil War ended and the Union was preserved, he understood that the true task was not merely to defeat the South but to heal a wounded nation. His words, “With malice toward none, with charity for all,” echo Calderón’s wisdom: knowing how to win is not the same as knowing how to use what is won. Though death struck him down before the work was complete, his vision still guides generations.

Therefore, my children of time yet unborn, let this teaching be etched upon your hearts: victory is but the beginning, never the end. The wise man prepares not only for the struggle but for the dawn after the struggle, when the harder task of building begins. Do not let your triumphs become tombs of your pride; let them be altars upon which greater works are raised.

In your daily life, this means: when you finish a great task, do not merely celebrate—plan what comes next. When you silence an inner weakness, build habits that strengthen the soul. When you achieve what you once thought impossible, ask how that power can serve others. Thus you will not only know how to gain victory, but also how to use it, and in so doing, you will not merely conquer—you will endure.