In short, cleverness is a gift or talent, reason is a quality or strength, but wisdom is a virtue.

And now I know the distinction amongst these three words. Cleverness is usually cruel, malicious, and selfish; it seeks a weakness in its neighbor and exploits it for its own gain; it leads to success.

Reason is frequently cruel to man, but it is true to its ends and intents; it seeks to profit everyone; if it finds weakness or ignorance in its neighbor, it attempts to remove it through enlightenment or correction; it leads to improvement.

Wisdom cannot be cruel, for it is pure generosity and good will; it does not seek to profit everyone, for it loves man too much to love instead some more distant goal; if it finds weakness or wretchedness in its neighbor, it forgives it and loves it; it leads to harmony.

Men of Boeotia, have you ever heard the word “wise” applied to an unhappy man? to a jokester? to an embittered and disappointed man? Tell me, why is it the custom, even in the unphilosophical life, to call that man wise who harbors the least hatred and who is on good terms with the world? Say this word “wisdom” to yourselves again and again; say the word in joy or in sorrow, say it when you are weary, angry, or impatient. You will hear sorrow in it, but sorrow reconciled; joy, but joy constantly and gently renewed; weariness, but weariness filled with encouragement, patience, and endless forgiveness. And all of this, my friends, is what gives the word wisdom such an exquisite yet melancholy sound, the voice with which wisdom speaks.

Yes, wisdom is melancholy, is longing, in a sense. Man can put all his reason into his work, he can practice it in his labors. But wisdom always remains above and beyond individual tasks. The wise man is like a gardener fertilizing a flower bed or fastening a rose to a stake, who all the while may be thinking of God. His work neither contains nor embodies his wisdom. Reason lies in action, but wisdom lies in experience.

Wise poets and artists, however, are able to put experience into their work; they offer their wisdom not in deeds, but directly in the form of experience. This, then, is the singular and special value of art, and nothing in the world can compare with it.

But look, I have deviated altogether from my topic for this lecture. Yet what more can I say? If wisdom lies in experience and not in ideas, it is unnecessary for me to read to you from my scroll.”

April 1, 1920

Alexander the Great

To Aristotle of Stagira, Director, Lyceum of Athens

My great and beloved teacher, dear Aristotle!

It has been a very long time since I last wrote to you, but as you know, I have been much preoccupied with military matters, and while we were marching through Hyrcania, Drangiana, and Gedrosia, conquering Bactria and advancing beyond the Indus, I had neither the time nor the inclination to take up my pen. I have been back in Susa for some months now, but again, I have been so overwhelmed with administrative concerns, appointing officials and stamping out all manner of intrigues and insurrections, that until today I have not had a minute to write you about myself. To be sure, the official dispatches have given you a rough idea what I have been doing, but both my affection for you and my confidence in your influence on cultured Hellenic circles prompt me once again to open my heart to you as my revered teacher and spiritual guide.

I think back to the time, many years past (how long ago it seems to me now!) when I wrote you a foolish and enthusiastic letter from atop the tomb of Achilles. It was at the threshold of my Persian expedition, and I vowed then that the brave son of Peleus would be my exemplar in life. I dreamed only of heroism and greatness; my victory over Thrace was already behind me, and I thought that I was marching against Darius at the head of my Macedonians and Hellenes simply to cover myself with laurels worthy of our ancestors whose praises were sung by Homer. I kept faith with my ideals at both Chaeronea and the Granicus, but today I hold a very different view of the political significance of those actions of mine. The sober truth is that our Macedonia, more or less united with Greece, was constantly threatened from the north by the Thracian barbarians; they could have attacked us at an unfavorable moment, which the Greeks would then have used as a pretext for revoking their treaty and breaking away from Macedonia. It was clearly necessary to subdue Thrace, so that we would have at least that side covered in the event of Greek treachery. It was sheer political necessity, my dear Aristotle, but your pupil did not understand this well enough then and indulged himself in dreams of emulating the feats of Achilles.

With the conquest of Thrace our situation changed: we controlled the whole of the western coast of the Aegean as far as the Bosporus, but our command over the Aegean was threatened by the naval power of the Persians. Specifically, positioned as we were above the Hellespont and Bosporus, we found ourselves in hazardous proximity to the Persian sphere of influence. Sooner or later there was bound to be a struggle between us and Persia over the Aegean and free passage through the Pontic Straits. Fortunately, I struck before Darius could prepare for battle. I thought that I was following in the footsteps of Achilles and would conquer a new Ilium for the glory of the Greeks; in reality, as I see it today, it was of utmost necessity to drive the Persians from the Aegean Sea, and I drove them back so efficiently, my dear teacher, that I seized all of Bithinia, Phrygia, and Cappadocia, plundered Cilicia, and did not stop until we reached Tarsus. Asia Minor was ours. Not only the ancient Aegean basin but the entire northern rim of the Mediterranean or, as we call it, the Egpytian Sea, was in our hands.

You might say, my dear Aristotle, that my paramount political and strategic goal, namely, the final expulsion of Persia from Hellenic waters, had now been achieved in full. With the conquest of Asia Minor, however, a new situation arose: our new shoreline could be threatened from the south, that is, from Venice or Egypt; Persia could procure reinforcements and supplies from there for waging further wars against us. Consequently, it was essential that we occupy the Tyrian coasts and control Egypt, and in this way we became masters of the entire seaboard. Yet a new danger arose at one and the same time: that Darius, relying on the resources of his rich Mesopotamia, might sweep into Syria and thereby cut off our Egyptian domains from our base in Asia Minor. Thus I had to crush Darius at any cost, and I succeeded in so doing at Gaugamela; as you know, Babylon as well as Susa, Persepolisas well as Pasargadae fell to their knees before us. By this action we gained control of the Persian Gulf, but in order to safeguard these new holdings against possible incursions from the north, it was necessary to march northwards against the Medes and Hyrcanians.