We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the
We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
The poet William Butler Yeats, with his gaze fixed upon the mysteries of the soul, once declared: “We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.” In this saying lies a truth as old as the human heart: that the conflicts we wage with the world produce argument and persuasion, but the conflicts we wage within our own souls give birth to art, to revelation, to the songs that endure beyond our lifetimes. Rhetoric is the voice of debate, seeking victory over others. But poetry—that is the voice of the inner struggle, the attempt to reconcile the warring factions of our own being.
The ancients knew this division well. The schools of Athens thrived on rhetoric, the sharpened blade of speech designed to sway assemblies and win trials. To quarrel with another was to master the art of persuasion, to turn language into a weapon for triumph. But when men wrestled with their own shadows—when they confronted love, loss, mortality, and longing—what they gave to the world was not rhetoric, but poetry, carved from the marrow of their struggle. For rhetoric convinces the mind, but poetry redeems the soul.
Consider the life of Homer, whose epics were born not merely from the battles of Greeks and Trojans, but from the deeper quarrels of mortality and fate. Achilles rages against Agamemnon, and that is rhetoric—words of fury cast outward. But when Achilles mourns Patroclus, when he faces the truth of his own brief life, that becomes poetry, eternal and unyielding. Thus Yeats’ words remind us: our quarrels with others pass into the dust of politics and disputes, but our quarrels with ourselves create the verses that still echo through the ages.
In the modern age, too, this truth shines. Recall the life of Vincent van Gogh. His quarrel with the world—its critics, its merchants, its cold rejection—created no lasting rhetoric. But his quarrel with himself, with his loneliness, with his visions, with his demons—this produced poetry, not with words but with color. His canvases are the poetry of his suffering, born of inward struggle, and they continue to speak when the voices of his doubters have long been silenced.
Yeats himself was no stranger to this duality. He lived in a land divided by politics, rebellion, and debate. His rhetoric played its part in Ireland’s national cause. But his true gift—the gift for which he is remembered—came not from quarrels with opponents, but from his quarrel with his own restless heart: his unfulfilled love for Maud Gonne, his search for meaning in myth and mysticism, his longing for permanence in a world of fleeting moments. From this inner turmoil came his poetry, luminous and eternal.
The lesson is this: while rhetoric may win you a day, poetry—born of self-struggle—can win you immortality. Do not fear the quarrel within; do not flee from the battle between who you are and who you long to be. For it is there, in the furnace of self-conflict, that beauty is forged. Outward battles may bring noise and applause, but inward battles bring truth, and truth shines long after applause has faded.
Practical actions follow: when you find yourself in conflict, pause and ask—am I quarreling outward, or inward? Learn the art of rhetoric for the world, but do not neglect the deeper work of poetry for the soul. Write, paint, sing, or reflect upon your inward struggles, turning them into forms of creation. Share them, for in your personal struggle, others will recognize their own. And above all, do not despise your inner quarrels. Embrace them, for they are the forge where your spirit is tempered, and from them, the poetry of your life will flow.
WRWilliam Ryan
This quote makes me think about how much we rely on logic and structure when dealing with external problems, yet turn to the more abstract and expressive form of poetry when dealing with our internal worlds. Is this contrast the reason why poetry often feels more personal and profound? How can we learn to channel our inner struggles into art, and why is it so often through poetry rather than other forms of expression?
NPNguyen Phuong
I find Yeats' distinction between rhetoric and poetry fascinating. Rhetoric serves a purpose in resolving conflicts with others, but poetry arises when we face conflicts within ourselves. This suggests that the journey inward is much more complex, emotional, and nuanced. Does that mean poetry is a more authentic form of expression than rhetoric, since it reflects the more profound and often unresolved parts of us?
NNNgan Nguyenthi
This quote makes me reflect on how we use different forms of expression based on the nature of the conflict. External disputes are often resolved with words of reason, while our inner conflicts can’t be captured by reason alone. Instead, we turn to poetry to give voice to those unspoken emotions. Is there a universal truth in this idea, or do some people express their inner struggles in ways other than poetry?
MTD. Minh Thu
Yeats’ insight into the nature of quarrels and how they shape language is profound. It highlights the way personal turmoil can give rise to creative expression, like poetry. But does this mean that all internal conflict leads to poetry? Or is it that only some of us can channel our struggles into art? It’s a beautiful thought, but how do we develop the ability to turn personal conflicts into something artistic?
HTTam Ho thi
I love how Yeats contrasts rhetoric with poetry, linking rhetoric to external conflict and poetry to the inner struggle. It makes me think about the difference between how we express ourselves outwardly versus inwardly. When we fight with others, we argue to prove our point, but when we fight with ourselves, we search for meaning and understanding. Is that the true essence of poetry — an exploration of our own complexity?