Tragedy is a hell of a teacher. It's much too strict, but it's a

Harlan Coben, teller of mysteries and chronicler of human struggle, once declared: “Tragedy is a hell of a teacher. It’s much too strict, but it’s a hell of a teacher.” In these words he does not glorify suffering, but acknowledges its terrible power. For tragedy, though merciless, has the ability to strip away illusion and to reveal the deepest truths of life. It teaches lessons that no comfort, no ease, no ordinary classroom could ever offer. It is a cruel master, yet its teachings are etched in the soul with fire.

The origin of such wisdom lies not in books alone, but in the eternal history of humankind. Across centuries and nations, men and women have learned more from the harsh blows of fate than from years of peaceful days. The victories of comfort are soon forgotten, but the scars of tragedy remain, burning like brands that shape character, faith, and endurance. Coben, as a novelist, has walked among the sorrows of his characters, yet he speaks here not only of fiction but of life itself: that those who endure suffering emerge changed, and often wiser.

Consider the story of Abraham Lincoln. His life was scarred by loss — the deaths of his children, the failures of his business, the bitter defeats of his early career. Each tragedy pressed upon him like an iron weight. And yet, rather than break, he grew more compassionate, more patient, more resolute. The man who guided a torn nation through civil war was not shaped by ease, but by sorrow. His greatness was the fruit of lessons learned in the strictest of schools: the school of tragedy.

So too do we find this truth in the life of Helen Keller. Struck blind and deaf as a child, she might have been lost in silence and despair. Yet through this immense tragedy, and with the guidance of her teacher Anne Sullivan, she discovered strength within herself. Her affliction, though merciless, became the crucible in which her spirit was forged. She rose not only to live but to inspire millions, proving that even the harshest teacher may give birth to greatness.

The lesson is sharp: we must not seek tragedy, nor pretend it is kind, but when it comes — as it comes to all mortals — we must not waste its teaching. It will strike without mercy, but in its blows are hidden truths about love, resilience, humility, and the fleeting nature of life. To curse it alone is to remain blind; to learn from it is to transform pain into wisdom, and grief into a wellspring of compassion for others.

What, then, shall we practice? When hardship strikes, do not deny the sorrow, but search for the lesson. Ask: What strength does this awaken in me? What vanity has this stripped away? How may I use this pain to serve others? Write down the lessons tragedy teaches you, as if recording the words of a stern instructor. Share them, so that others may be spared some measure of your suffering by learning from your endurance.

Therefore, O seekers of truth, remember: tragedy is a fierce teacher. It will never be gentle, it will never grade with mercy, it will never smile upon its pupils. And yet, its lessons endure when all others fade. If you endure its harsh schooling with courage, you will emerge with a wisdom that no wealth can buy, no comfort can bestow, and no time can erase. Such wisdom is the inheritance of those who suffer — and the gift they pass on to generations yet to come.