Who among us has the strength to oppose petty egoism, those

The Russian master Ivan Turgenev once asked: “Who among us has the strength to oppose petty egoism, those petty good feelings, pity and remorse?” At first glance, the words seem strange—why should pity or remorse, which appear noble, be placed beside egoism, that selfish root of human weakness? Yet, beneath the surface of this question lies a profound reflection on the battle within the soul: the struggle not against great external enemies, but against the subtle inner chains that keep men bound in mediocrity.

For what is petty egoism but the ceaseless whisper of the self, demanding recognition, honor, or comfort? It is not the mighty ambition of heroes nor the towering pride of kings, but the small, everyday insistence that my pain, my success, my grievance be elevated above all. This egoism, petty though it is, erodes the greatness of spirit as water erodes the stone. It is not vast storms that undo a ship, but the thousand little leaks that go unattended. Thus, Turgenev calls us to vigilance: to resist not merely the grand passions, but the quiet corrosion of the small self.

And what of those petty good feelings? Here lies Turgenev’s paradox: he warns against the comfort of shallow virtue. To weep a tear at a tragedy yet lift not a hand to ease the suffering; to feel the glow of generosity yet sacrifice nothing of substance—these are the counterfeit coins of goodness. They deceive the heart into believing it has acted, when in truth it has only indulged itself. Pity too can be such a snare. It may soothe our conscience, but it does not strengthen the afflicted. Remorse may gnaw at us, but if it paralyzes rather than transforms, it too is but another mask of self-centeredness.

History itself offers lessons in this struggle. Consider Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor. Surrounded by betrayal, disease, and the weight of empire, he taught himself to look beyond pity and remorse, and even beyond egoism. “Waste no more time arguing about what a good man should be,” he wrote. “Be one.” He knew that feelings, whether noble or selfish, are fleeting, but action forged from principle is eternal. He resisted both the lure of self-pity in hardship and the temptation of idle moral sentiment, and instead lived in the quiet discipline of duty.

But not all have triumphed. There are tales of reformers and dreamers who, consumed by their own righteous sorrow, became paralyzed. They felt deeply, but acted little. Their tears watered the soil of their conscience but bore no fruit in the world. Here the wisdom of Turgenev is sharp: to overcome these “petty” snares requires strength—not of the arm, but of the spirit. The strength to rise above feelings, however noble they seem, and to do what is needful.

The lesson, then, is clear. True greatness is not found in indulgence of feeling, whether selfish or seemingly virtuous, but in the steadfastness of will. Pity must be transfigured into compassion that acts. Remorse must be reshaped into repentance that changes life. And egoism must be cast aside in favor of devotion to something greater than the self. This is the narrow path walked by sages, leaders, and all who would leave a mark beyond their own shadow.

So let the reader take this teaching as a guide: when you feel the pull of self-centeredness, resist; when you are warmed by easy emotions, examine them; when you are heavy with remorse, turn it into resolve. Practice daily acts that free you from yourself: give quietly without recognition, labor with no expectation of reward, and forgive with no desire for repayment. Thus, slowly, you will cultivate the strength Turgenev speaks of.

And remember this final word: feelings pass, but deeds endure. The world is changed not by the comfort of emotion, but by the courage to act beyond it. Therefore, rise, and let your spirit be stronger than your pity, firmer than your remorse, and freer than your egoism. Only then will you stand among those rare souls who, in truth, have the strength to oppose them.