One often calms one's grief by recounting it.

Hear the words of Pierre Corneille, the French dramatist who gave voice to the passions of kings and the anguish of mortals: “One often calms one’s grief by recounting it.” This wisdom, though simple, flows from the ancient rivers of the human heart. For sorrow, when locked away, becomes a fire that burns unseen; but when spoken aloud, it turns into a flame that warms rather than consumes.

In every age, the burden of grief has fallen upon mankind. Fathers have buried sons, lovers have been parted, nations have mourned the loss of heroes. Yet the soul cannot bear such weight alone. Corneille reminds us that to recount sorrow, to share it in words with others, is to ease its sharpness. The act of speaking does not erase the wound, but it gives it form, and in form there is mastery. A silent grief devours, but a spoken grief begins to heal.

Consider the tale of Achilles in Homer’s Iliad. When his beloved Patroclus fell, Achilles was maddened with grief, unrestrained and destructive. Yet when he spoke his sorrow aloud—when he recounted his pain before his comrades, and later before the Trojan king Priam—his rage softened. The recounting of his loss did not resurrect Patroclus, but it calmed Achilles’ heart and reminded him that even enemies share in the universal law of mourning. Thus, speech became the bridge from despair to compassion.

Corneille, as a dramatist, saw this truth embodied on the stage. His tragedies were not only stories but vessels of shared sorrow, allowing the audience to recount their own unspoken grief through the voices of kings and queens. In the theater, tears were not shed alone but together. In this way, grief was lightened, because each person recognized their suffering mirrored in another’s. The stage became a temple of catharsis, and words became the medicine of the soul.

O seeker, note also the humility in this truth: to recount grief requires vulnerability. It demands that one open the gates of the heart and allow others to see what lies within. Many fear this, for they believe strength is silence. But in truth, strength is the courage to speak, to trust another with one’s sorrow, and to allow healing to begin. For when grief is shared, the weight is divided, and in that division, endurance is born.

Thus the lesson is clear: do not hold sorrow within as though it were shameful. Seek ears that will listen—whether a friend, a family member, a community, or even the page of a diary. Tell your story, not only for the comfort it brings you, but for the connection it creates with others. In your words, they may find echoes of their own pain, and together, both souls may be lifted.

Therefore, O traveler of life, remember Corneille’s wisdom: speech is not weakness, but balm. Recount your grief, not to rid yourself of love for the one lost, but to honor it, to keep it alive in memory, and to ease the storm in your heart. For grief spoken becomes not a burden, but a thread that binds us to one another.

So let this truth guide you: when sorrow comes, do not suffer alone. Speak it, share it, let it be heard. In this act, you will find that the tempest quiets, the darkness lightens, and the heart, though scarred, learns once more to beat in peace.