There are only two people who can tell you the truth about

Hear the piercing wisdom of Antisthenes, disciple of Socrates and father of the Cynics, who declared: “There are only two people who can tell you the truth about yourself—an enemy who has lost his temper and a friend who loves you dearly.” In this saying, the veil is lifted from the human condition: for most men will not speak truth to your face. Strangers flatter, acquaintances remain silent, and the crowd echoes what pleases. But when rage or love burns away restraint, then truth bursts forth—sometimes as a weapon, sometimes as a gift.

The meaning of this quote rests in the rare circumstances when the heart is laid bare. An enemy, in the heat of anger, forgets diplomacy and shatters the mask of civility. He strikes with words as with a sword, naming flaws and wounds you would rather keep hidden. Though his purpose is to injure, his rage often unmasks realities that others conceal. Likewise, a friend, in the fire of love, dares to risk your displeasure, telling you what you do not wish to hear, because they would rather wound your pride than see your soul deceived. Thus truth comes to us not from the indifferent, but from those whose hearts are stirred most deeply—for ill or for good.

The ancients knew this well. Recall Socrates, who spoke truth not only to friends but to the rulers of Athens. They despised him for it, for his words revealed their ignorance. To them, he became an enemy, and in their rage they condemned him. Yet his enemies, in their hatred, proclaimed more about themselves—and about Socrates—than they knew. So too, his dearest companions, Plato among them, preserved his truths out of love, even when painful. In both anger and love, truth was revealed.

History bears witness again in the life of Abraham Lincoln. In politics, he faced enemies who insulted him with venom, mocking his rough upbringing, his awkward frame, his unpolished ways. And though their intent was cruel, they uncovered truths about his humility and plainness that Lincoln later embraced as strengths. At the same time, he had friends who loved him enough to confront him when his burdens grew too heavy, urging him to rest, to endure, to carry on. Both enemy and friend showed him truths he needed—one harsh, the other tender.

Yet we must see the danger as well. The words of an enemy may be sharpened by hatred, distorted by spite. His truth is a truth twisted. The words of a friend, though softened by love, may tremble with fear of causing pain. Both require discernment. Antisthenes does not tell us to accept every accusation or every counsel blindly, but to listen with wisdom, knowing that when emotion strips away disguise, some part of truth often reveals itself.

The lesson for us is clear: do not despise the words of an enemy in anger, nor turn away from the warnings of a friend in love. Examine them both, for hidden within may be truths about yourself that you could not see alone. Your flaws, your strengths, your blind spots—these are often spoken most clearly by those stirred to passion. Take these words not as insults or burdens, but as mirrors. In them, you may glimpse yourself more honestly than in a thousand flatteries.

Practical is this path: when your enemy rages, do not only defend—listen. Ask yourself if there is a fragment of truth within the fire. When your friend speaks what stings, thank them, for they risked your anger to give you a gift. Do not rely on your own eyes alone, but let truth come to you from both love and hatred. For as Antisthenes teaches, the enemy in wrath and the friend in love are the rarest and truest teachers of the soul. And he who learns from both will walk the path of wisdom, humble yet unshakable.