“The First [Friend] is the
alter ego, the man who first reveals to you that you are not alone in the world
by turning out (beyond hope) to share all your most secret delights. There is
nothing to be overcome in making him your friend; he and you join like
raindrops on a window. But the Second Friend is the man who disagrees with you
about everything. He is not so much the alter ego as the antiself. Of course he
shares your interests; otherwise he would not become your friend at all. But he
has approached them all at a different angle. He has read all the right books
but has got the wrong thing out of every one. It is as if he spoke your
language but mispronounced it. How can he be so nearly right and yet,
invariably, just not right? He is as fascinating (and infuriating) as a woman.
When you set out to correct his heresies, you will find that he forsooth has decided
to correct yours! And then you go at it, hammer and tongs, far into the night,
night after night, or walking through fine country that neither gives a glance
to, each learning the weight of the other's punches, and often more like
mutually respectful enemies than friends. Actually (though it never seems so at
the time) you modify one another's thought; out of this perpetual dogfight a
community of mind and a deep affection emerge.”
― C.S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy
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