This is not philosophy. It’s not advice. It’s a slow bleed. A sequence of crystalline, merciless truths that land like little guillotine blades, one after another, until your sense of nobility, love, generosity, loyalty — all of it — lies twitching on the table.

La Rochefoucauld doesn’t scream. He doesn’t need to. His sentences are short, quiet, and soaked in centuries of rot. “We only confess small faults to convince others we have no big ones.” “Hypocrisy is the tribute vice pays to virtue.” “Our enemies’ hatred flatters our pride more than our friends’ praise.”
Every page is a mirror, and every mirror is cracked.

It’s not cynical. It’s just too lucid for comfort.
And it hasn’t aged a day.

This isn’t a book you read. It’s a book you lose arguments to

-Great - Book is well kept and displays minimal signs of age or wear.

-All conditions are subjectively evaluated based upon age.