Staying married may have long-term benefits. You can elicit much

Hear now the wry wisdom of P. J. O’Rourke, a jester of our age, who clothed truth in the garments of laughter. He declared: “Staying married may have long-term benefits. You can elicit much more sympathy from friends over a bad marriage than you ever can from a good divorce.” At first, these words seem but jest, a light arrow shot for amusement. Yet beneath the mirth lies an old truth: society often honors suffering more than liberation, and pities endurance more than freedom. O’Rourke, in his sharpness, holds a mirror before us, and what we see reflected is the strange measure by which people grant compassion.

In this saying, the bad marriage is painted as a familiar tale, a wound shown openly to others. Friends gather round such wounds with murmurs of sympathy, with nods of recognition, for misery shared is misery softened. The endurance of a poor union becomes a badge of struggle, and thus earns a strange kind of respect. Yet the good divorce, though it may carry healing, clarity, and courage, is often met with silence, even suspicion. For joy after breaking chains does not elicit the same chorus of comfort as the lament of one who remains bound.

This paradox is as old as human fellowship. Consider the tale of Catherine of Aragon, first wife of Henry VIII. She clung to her marriage despite her husband’s betrayal, enduring humiliation before all of Europe. And though her life was wracked with grief, she was revered by the people for her steadfastness, and her suffering drew their sympathy. Yet when her rival, Anne Boleyn, rose to freedom through the dissolution of Henry’s marriage, she received not sympathy but scorn, even though she, too, was following the path of her truth. Thus history proves O’Rourke’s jest: endurance of sorrow often wins more pity than the pursuit of liberation.

But do not misunderstand him, children of the future. His words are not a call to remain shackled in misery merely for the sake of sympathy. Rather, they reveal the crooked ways of human judgment, and they remind us that pity is a poor compass for the soul. To live wisely is not to choose the path that earns the most sympathy, but the one that brings the most truth and peace to your heart.

For what is sympathy if it does not lead to strength? It is but a fleeting balm, soothing the moment yet not curing the wound. A good divorce, though it may draw fewer comforting words, can free the spirit, restore dignity, and awaken new beginnings. It is often the braver road, for it invites not pity but self-reliance, not the applause of endurance but the quiet triumph of reclaiming one’s life.

The lesson then is this: do not measure your choices by how others will view them, nor by the sympathy you may gather. Measure them by the truth of your spirit and the health of your soul. If you endure in marriage, let it be for love renewed, not for pity collected. If you part, let it be for freedom and honesty, not fearing the silence of others. For neither marriage nor divorce is holy in itself; what is holy is the courage to live authentically.

Practical wisdom calls you, O listener: weigh your unions with honesty, cherish the bonds that give life, and release the bonds that steal it. Do not seek the shadowy comfort of sympathy; seek instead the enduring strength of truth. Remember that others may whisper, judge, or even turn away, but their voices are not the measure of your worth. What matters is the peace you carry when you lie down at night, and the integrity with which you rise at dawn.

Thus O’Rourke, with his laughter, hands us a lesson as serious as any sage: pity may be abundant for the one who suffers, but wisdom belongs to the one who chooses rightly. Do not live for sympathy; live for freedom, love, and truth—for these are treasures no crowd of mourners can bestow.