Beware of Pity

by Stefan Zweig

It always demands a far greater degree of courage for an individual to oppose an organized movement than to let himself be carried along with the stream — individual courage, that is, a variety of courage that is dying out in these times of progressive organization and mechanization.

It all began with that sudden pull at the reins, which was, so to speak, the first symptom of the strange poisoning of my spirit by pity.

No, no pity for the sick — the sick person places himself outside the law, he offends against law and order, and in order to restore law and order, to restore the sick person himself, one must, as in the case of every revolt, attack ruthlessly, employ every weapon at one’s command, for goodness and truth have never yet succeeded in curing humanity or even a single human being.

Even if I had gone further than in all honesty I should have done, my lies, those lies born of pity, had made her happy; and to make a person happy could never be a crime.

pity is a confoundedly two-edged business. Anyone who doesn’t know how to deal with it should keep his hands, and, above all, his heart, off it. It is only at first that pity, like morphia, is a solace to the invalid, a remedy, a drug, but unless you know the correct dosage and when to stop, it becomes a virulent poison.

Everything in life that deviates from the straight and, so to speak, normal line makes people first curious and then indignant.

Our decisions are to a much greater extent dependent on our desire to conform to the standards of our class and environment than we are inclined to admit.

The man whose pity had not, like mine, been murderous weakness but selfless, self-sacrificing strength; the only man who could judge me, the only man before whom I need feel ashamed!

I have realized afresh that no guilt is forgotten so long as the conscience still knows of it.