Baltasar Gracián: Critic of an Oppressive Age

A 17th-century Jesuit priest, known for his advice on worldly success, took aim at a despotic regime

Portrait of Baltasar Gracián (1601–1658). Iglesia de San Miguel, Graus, Spain. Public domain

“Self-knowledge is the beginning of self-improvement.” Many variations of this simple advice exist today, but this formulation was originally the motto of a 17th-century Jesuit priest named Baltasar Gracián y Morales.

Although not widely known outside of Spain, Gracián does occasionally transcend obscurity. Thirty years ago, Christopher Maurer’s translation of Gracián’s book “The Art of Worldly Wisdom” unexpectedly made The New York Times bestseller list and sold more than 200,000 copies. It consists of 300 wry observations, such as the following:

“Cautious silence is where prudence takes refuge.”

“The greatest fool is the one who doesn’t think himself one, only others.”

“It takes much reflection to keep a passion from bolting like a horse; and if you’re wise on horseback, you’re wise in everything.”

“A beautiful woman should break her mirror early.”

Gracián’s proverbial wit and brevity is famous in Spain, and his best one-liners bear similarities to those found in “Poor Richard’s Almanac.” In the world of academic philosophy, practical thinkers get ignored in favor of theoreticians. But while old theories are rendered obsolete by newer ones, wisdom is timeless. Gracián’s writings retain a perennially modern quality even after 400 years.

An Empire in Decline

Born in 1601, Gracián lived in a time much like our own. The Spanish empire was on the wane: The government was rife with corruption, the economy was failing, and individual liberties were under attack.

Gracián observed that moral decline was accompanying social decline. He felt that he needed to combat this tendency by writing ethical manuals on how to navigate an uncertain world.

He wanted his readers to attain a special type of understanding, which he described using a word that has no direct equivalent in English: “desengaño.” As his translator, Maurer, explains it as a state of “disillusionment in which one gains control of one’s hopes and fears, overcomes deceitful appearances and vain expectations, and weans oneself from false worldly values.” The closest English approximation is probably “disenchantment,” but without that word’s pessimistic connotations. Maurer’s phrase “bittersweet beatitude” perhaps best describes Gracián’s intended brand of enlightenment.

Gracián teaches us how to cultivate excellence, good taste, gracefulness in action, emotional mastery, and other prudent behaviors. Never be content with imitating others, he tells us—be singular and original. Strive toward perfection without trying to impress anyone. Hide your depths from those who would be envious of your talents.

He belabors this last point in all his books. As he succinctly puts it, “Do, but also seem.” In dangerous times, appearances are as important as substance.

Too Worldly Wise?

Some might think it strange that a Jesuit priest would write about how to achieve success in earthly affairs. This apparent contradiction wasn’t lost on Gracián’s contemporaries. Although his writings aren’t controversial today, the Spanish Inquisition was at its height during his lifetime. Thousands of people were tortured and executed on charges of witchcraft, heresy, and immorality, sometimes based only on the suspicions of a neighbor. Many books—some of which are now classics—were deemed harmful, placed on a forbidden index, and burned.

Gracián’s ecclesiastical superiors considered it unbecoming of a man who had taken holy orders to publish shrewd advice books on nonspiritual matters. His catchy maxims about concealing one’s intentions struck them as dishonest and sinful. On top of this, Gracián didn’t seek approval to print his books. Instead, he went around the authorities and quietly published them under pen names.

He seems to have been speaking from experience when, in “The Art of Worldly Wisdom,” he writes: “Being defeated is hateful, and besting one’s boss is either foolish or fatal.”

Gracián was more intelligent than his superiors, constantly outshone them, and was perpetually insubordinate. Upon discovering that he had authored another book, they would discipline him by placing him on rations of bread and water or exiling him to remote areas of the country.

Fortunately for Gracián, he was friends with a wealthy nobleman who financed his publications and saved him from the Inquisition’s most excessive punishments. The bureaucracy driving the censorship was also inefficient enough that Gracián could squeeze by as a repeat offender. His books were printed in pocket-sized editions. This made them not only easy to carry, but to conceal.

Brief Enmity, Lasting Fame

Gracián’s final book won him his greatest acclaim as an author—and animosity from the Spanish elites. Unlike his earlier advice manuals, this one was a novel: “El Criticón” (“The Critic” or “Faultfinder”), which ranks with “Don Quixote” as one of the masterpieces of Spanish literature. In it, a cynical man of the world named Critilo is shipwrecked on a deserted island. He meets Andrenio, a “natural man” who has lived his entire life on the island and is innocent of social customs. Together, they set out on a journey toward the “Isle of Immortality” and have many adventures along the way.

The tension between the practical realist Critilo and the naïve, idealistic Andrenio allows Gracián to comment hilariously on the evils of Spanish society during his day—even daring to criticize King Philip IV and his corrupt ministers.

To ridicule a despotic regime was no laughing matter. Though Gracián published the first part of the novel under the pseudonym “García de Malones” (an anagram of Gracián y Morales), his superiors discovered the book’s true authorship and punished him. He was prohibited from writing anything ever again. Despite his own advice about keeping up appearances, Gracián wasn’t very good at it himself. He had a dangerous habit of speaking the truth even when it led to bad outcomes.

As Gracián writes, “A wise man gets more use from his enemies than a fool from his friends.”

Even while the Spanish authorities denounced “The Critic,” it was being widely translated. Gracián couldn’t resist the allurements of fame and completed two more parts of the novel.

When the third volume appeared in 1657, his superiors finally had enough. He was expelled from his professorship at a Jesuit College and sent to live out his days in a rural village. The general of the Society of Jesus ordered Gracián’s seniors to keep watch over him, inspect his hands for ink stains, and search his room. If any secular writings were found, he was to be locked up without paper or pen “until he is humbled and recognizes his error.” Gracián died a few months later.

His literary achievements, however, achieved enormous popularity throughout Europe, outliving the enmity of narrow minds.

It’s well to remember that freedom of the press, something Americans take for granted, still doesn’t exist in many countries today. Writers suffer harsh retribution for criticizing those in power. Outspoken journalists disappear, never to be seen again. It’s heartening, then, that even in the worst of times there have been those who don’t submit to coerced ideological conformity.

“Speak what is very good, do what is very honorable,” Gracián writes. “The first shows a perfect head, the second a perfect heart, and both arise in a superior spirit.”