Are there people you don’t like as much as you’d like to? It’s annoying, right? “Perfectly nice,” “nothing wrong with them,” they may be polite, cordial, responsive, good citizens, “the whole nine yards.” (The origins of this idiom remain mysterious.) You ought to feel warmly toward them, but you can’t. They rub you wrong – and you can’t figure out why.

Most of us, in answer to this conundrum, might shrug, “Oh well, de gustibus, no big deal, live and let live.” I too, only nosing into quandaries is my vocation and avocation. I fancy myself an archaeologist of human oddity, commencing with my own. Start digging and there’s no telling what you’ll unearth.

To be clear, I’m not referring to you. What writer doesn’t love their readers? You give us purpose, permit us to imagine we matter. For anyone who ponders, belief in one’s significance is tenuous at best. One of nine billion, destined for dust, how can we matter? Your eyes on our sentences encourage, urging us upward, like grow-lights in the dark.

The folks I don’t cotton to don’t read me – that’s my first beef. They might, they’re capable, but they don’t. This reaction is unreasonable – outrageous, really – but I can’t help it. If you want to know what I’m up to, pal, be my guest, I report my existential whereabouts daily – for free – have at it. If you don’t give a damn, don’t pretend to. Empty words get my goat.

Then there’s an implicit disequilibrium in our relation. Friendship is a deal: one gives and one gets in fair proportion, so neither feels shortchanged. The specie is typically intangible. A gorgeous person may lavish us with their loveliness (see, “eye-candy”). A kindly person might “feel our pain.” A weirdo might laugh at my jokes (bless you!). A lonely person might welcome company. Whatever we receive adequately compensates us for the resources we expend (time, money, attention, etc.).

The most precious reward of friendship is spiritual concordance. We “see things the same way.” We like alike, find the same things funny or pleasing. Many of Jane’s and my closest pals love the music we call classical. Not only do we have plenty to discuss, we sense without being told what makes the other “tick.” Their addiction validates ours. It’s not crazy to pay three hundred bucks to see an opera – of course you do!

Absent concordance, equilibrium, and shared enthusiasm, we recoil from intimacy. We feel insensibly dissed, wounded, by our differences, which translates into dislike. I’m averse to anyone who believes they’re my superior because they possess measurably more – money, power, fame. My currency is gifts of the spirit – beauty, grace, kindness, truth, generosity, eloquence, joy – not hard to detect but impossible to tally.

I flee, especially, liars and bullies. They may be bigshots, admirable in their actions, but you can sense the crud within. Politicians, salespeople, and dogmatists I’m wary of, for their distortions. I’m agog at any adult who considers decisions simple. “Obviously” is an adverb I cringe at.

While polite to all (I hope), I’ve always been picky about my true pals. Candidates were “few and far between,” and of these, many lacked room in their hearts or schedules for a fresh affection. We cannot love more than a few if that love is to mean anything, for love takes time and mind, both in short supply. “He that has many friends has none,” Aristotle is said to have said.

The miracle of these missives for their maker is the bounty of beautiful souls. We bask in each other’s warmth. We are not alone.