We need two kinds of acquaintances, one to complain to, while to

“We need two kinds of acquaintances, one to complain to, while to the others we boast.” — Logan Pearsall Smith

In this line of elegant irony, Logan Pearsall Smith, the master of refined wit and quiet wisdom, unveils a profound truth about human nature. His words, though wrapped in humor, strike at the dual desires that dwell within every heart — the need to be comforted in sorrow and admired in triumph. He shows us that even the most civilized among us still seek mirrors: one to reflect our suffering, the other to reflect our success. In this simple observation lies both empathy and critique — a reminder that we, as humans, are bound by our longing to be understood and affirmed.

To complain is to share the weight of life. To boast is to share its light. Both are acts of reaching outward — of saying, “See me, and know what I feel.” The ancients understood this instinct well. In the tragedies of Greece, heroes poured their sorrows before companions, seeking sympathy and counsel. In the feasts of victory, they sang of their deeds before crowds, hungering for honor and remembrance. Humanity, even in its highest forms, has always balanced between confession and celebration. Smith, in his gentle irony, reveals that though centuries have passed, we are still the same: beings of pride and pain, needing both the ear of compassion and the gaze of admiration.

Consider the story of King David of Israel. In the days of triumph, he sang boldly before his people — songs of conquest, songs of deliverance. Yet in his moments of despair, when guilt and grief consumed him, he turned to his psalms — private laments to his God. His spirit required both voices: one that proclaimed greatness, another that whispered sorrow. So too are we made — not as beings of pure humility or endless pride, but as a harmony of both. To boast and to complain are not contradictions; they are the two ways the soul breathes.

Yet, Smith’s observation carries also a tone of gentle mockery. For though these instincts are human, they reveal how rarely we seek truth for its own sake. We do not always complain to be healed, nor boast to inspire — but to feed the self’s hunger for attention. The complaint becomes an appeal for pity; the boast, a performance for praise. The wise, however, know that such validation is fleeting. The sympathy of others may soothe for a moment, the admiration of others may thrill for an hour, but both are borrowed fires — they fade when the heart itself is cold. In this, Smith warns us subtly: do not live only through the mirrors of others, for they can never reflect your true self.

The ancient Stoics spoke against this very tendency. Seneca taught that one must learn to bear both pain and joy within oneself, to find peace without leaning too heavily on the approval or pity of others. “The wise man,” he said, “is content in fortune and misfortune alike, for he governs himself.” Yet, even Seneca, in his letters, sought a friend — one to share his reflections, his struggles, his victories. Thus, even the philosopher, striving for self-sufficiency, could not escape Smith’s truth: we all need witnesses to our existence, one for our weakness and one for our strength.

Smith’s genius lies in his acceptance of this paradox. He does not condemn it; he simply reveals it. He sees humanity as it is — complex, contradictory, and achingly real. His “two kinds of acquaintances” are not flaws in our character, but proof of our dual nature: the creature that suffers and aspires, that doubts and dreams. The wise do not deny this duality, but govern it. They choose carefully whom they confide in, and to whom they proclaim. For not every listener can bear your sorrow, and not every friend will rejoice in your success. The discernment of to whom you speak, and when — that is the art of maturity.

So, my child, take this teaching to heart. Do not be ashamed of your need to share, for no soul is an island. Seek those few who can bear your burdens without judgment and your triumphs without envy. But also learn, as the ancients did, the strength of silence — the ability to carry both joy and pain within your own steady heart. Complain less to be pitied, and boast less to be praised. Instead, speak to connect, to grow, to understand. Let your words, whether of sorrow or of triumph, serve not the ego, but the truth.

For as Logan Pearsall Smith reminds us with gentle wit, every human heart needs both a shoulder and an audience. Yet the greatest wisdom is to know that neither defines us — they only reflect us. The soul that learns to balance these two voices will find peace: humble in victory, and hopeful in grief, walking the narrow path between confession and pride with the quiet dignity of the truly wise.