Philosophy (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a book that treats you well exactly when it shows you how far your character has been left behind by its ideas, so that a student of twenty-five blushes, punishes himself and goes without dinner.

Absence (n.) pays ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its own debt: every annoyance it inflicts returns as an equal gain of longing, and since longing comes from love, the parting itself enlarges what it interrupts.

Friend (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the one man you post as a lookout when everyone around a prince has learned to nod and guard their tongues like slaves.

Longing (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the one thing days of sameness cannot flatten: the theater and the boredom repeat, but the longing is never the same day twice, renewed and swelling each morning.

Rhetoric (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be a flawless farm of wheat and vines with no fig tree, no rose and no shade: everything useful, everything praised, nothing to love.

Separation (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠measured by a different calendar than the almanac: those who say two months have only counted the days.

Study (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the first thing a loved one's pain cancels: the Catos, Ciceros and Sallusts can all go, so long as the teacher is well again.

Duty (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠Cato for you and the lawyers for me: the book in your hands while mine waits in the courtroom until five, and a night I wish short enough to see you sooner.

Praise (n.) of ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a perfect speech is also its verdict on everyone who studies: having read it, the pupil announces that study, work and straining are now a waste.