People praise virtue, but they hate it, they run away from it. It

In the penetrating words of Denis Diderot, philosopher of the Enlightenment and rebel of the mind, we find a truth both bitter and profound: “People praise virtue, but they hate it, they run away from it. It freezes you to death, and in this world you’ve got to keep your feet warm.” Within these lines lies not cynicism, but revelation. Diderot speaks of the eternal tension between idealism and survival, between what we call noble and what we must endure to live. Humanity, he says, bows before virtue in speech but flees from it in practice, for to live purely is to suffer in a world that rewards cunning, not goodness.

Diderot, a man who challenged kings, priests, and philosophers alike, knew well the price of virtue. He was a thinker who sought truth in an age of hypocrisy, when to speak honestly could mean ruin. He watched as men exalted moral ideals in public but betrayed them in private. He saw that society worships virtue only as a statue—cold, untouchable, and remote. To live virtuously among the corrupt is like standing naked in the snow: admirable, but deadly. And so he wrote, with both sorrow and irony, that virtue “freezes you to death.” He understood that purity without warmth—without compassion, humor, or practicality—turns to ice in the heart.

This struggle between virtue and comfort, between righteousness and survival, is as old as humankind. The Stoics of Greece and Rome taught that virtue is the only true good, yet even they lived in courts of power and compromise. The martyrs of faith embraced virtue unto death, but their example, though holy, is too heavy for most to bear. Diderot does not mock them; he mourns the gap between their sacred flame and the frailty of ordinary souls. He reminds us that the world is not a temple but a marketplace, and in the marketplace, the virtuous man must still eat, still walk, still keep his feet warm.

Consider the tale of Socrates, the philosopher who refused to abandon his principles even when Athens condemned him. His virtue was perfect, his integrity unbending—and yet, he drank the poison hemlock and left his family to grief. The city praised him after his death, but it could not bear his virtue while he lived. His truth, like the winter wind, was too cold for comfort. And so it is in every age: we honor the righteous, but we seldom follow them, for their example shames our compromises. We build monuments to their courage while covering ourselves in the cloak of convenience.

Yet Diderot’s words do not urge us to abandon virtue. Rather, they urge us to temper it with humanity. For virtue that freezes is not true virtue, but pride disguised as purity. The wise man must learn balance—to walk in warmth without sinking into corruption, to speak truth without cruelty, to do good without forgetting joy. Virtue, in its highest form, is not austerity but compassion; not the denial of life, but its sanctification. To keep one’s feet warm is not to betray virtue, but to sustain it—to remain human enough to keep walking the path of goodness in a cold and indifferent world.

The lesson, then, is this: do not let virtue become ice. Do not wear righteousness as armor so thick that it isolates you from the warmth of others. Let your goodness breathe; let it move with kindness and understanding. Be virtuous, yes—but also be wise. When the world’s frost bites hard, wrap yourself in humility, in laughter, in love, so that your goodness does not wither into bitterness. For virtue that cannot survive the cold is no virtue at all.

So, my children of the future, hear the voice of Diderot and remember: the world will always praise virtue, but it will test those who live by it. Do not run from virtue, and do not worship it as an idol—live it with warmth. Keep your mind bright, your heart tender, and your feet warm upon the frozen earth. For in this balance lies the secret of endurance—the art of remaining good without growing cold, and the courage to be human in a world that forgets what that means.