A great many people think that polysyllables are a sign of

“A great many people think that polysyllables are a sign of intelligence.” Thus spoke Barbara Walters, a woman of clarity and courage, whose voice cut through the noise of her age. In this wry and piercing observation, she exposes one of humanity’s oldest follies: the belief that the appearance of wisdom is the same as wisdom itself. Her words, though wrapped in humor, strike at the heart of vanity — that dangerous impulse to seem learned rather than to be understanding, to speak grandly rather than truly. For the measure of intelligence lies not in the length of one’s words, but in the depth of one’s thought.

Walters, who rose from modest beginnings to become one of the most respected journalists of her century, spoke as one who had seen many powerful and eloquent people mistake verbosity for knowledge. Her career, built on the strength of listening and asking rather than proclaiming, taught her that simplicity is the companion of clarity, and clarity the child of wisdom. The “polysyllables” of which she speaks — those long, ornate words used to impress rather than illuminate — symbolize the vanity of the mind that wishes to be admired, not understood. To speak with many syllables is easy; to speak with truth and precision is divine.

The ancients too understood this truth. The philosopher Socrates, though called the wisest man of Athens, claimed to know nothing — and yet, through humble dialogue, he revealed wisdom greater than all who boasted knowledge. His speech was plain, his questions simple, but his insight pierced like lightning. His greatness lay not in adornment of speech, but in the power of meaning behind it. So too did the Roman statesman Cicero warn that language should serve thought, not disguise it; that eloquence is beautiful only when it serves the truth. Walters’s words carry that same timeless reminder: intelligence is not displayed by the complexity of language, but by the clarity of purpose.

Consider also the story of Abraham Lincoln, whose speeches were written in simple, direct words understood by farmers, laborers, and scholars alike. The Gettysburg Address, one of the most profound speeches in history, is short and unadorned. Yet within its few sentences lies the heartbeat of a nation and the moral vision of a people reborn through sacrifice. Lincoln’s wisdom was not diminished by his simplicity — it was magnified by it. His words endured because they were spoken not to impress, but to connect; not to dominate, but to awaken. His example teaches that true intelligence seeks light, not applause.

Barbara Walters, a woman of the spoken word, understood that the purpose of communication is not to bewilder, but to bridge. In her interviews, she drew out kings and presidents, artists and scientists — not by dazzling them with rhetoric, but by listening deeply and asking with sincerity. Her mastery lay not in using great words, but in reaching great understanding. She reminds us that the simplest question, asked from genuine curiosity, is more powerful than the most elaborate speech born of pride. For intelligence without humility becomes arrogance, and language without compassion becomes noise.

In her quote lies also a subtle rebuke to a society that confuses style for substance. Too often, people chase the look of knowledge — the grand vocabulary, the polished façade — rather than the labor of learning. They forget that wisdom is not an ornament but a discipline, earned through reflection, humility, and the courage to admit what one does not know. A wise person speaks plainly because they have nothing to hide; a fool speaks opaquely because they fear being seen. Walters’s truth is therefore not about words at all — it is about integrity.

So, children of the future, remember this lesson: speak to be understood, not to be admired. Let your words be clear as a mountain stream, carrying thought without distortion. Do not mistake complexity for brilliance, nor assume that simplicity is weakness. The truest minds — whether poets, teachers, or leaders — seek not to appear clever, but to reveal truth with grace. As Barbara Walters teaches, intelligence is not in the syllables you speak, but in the light your words bring to others.

And thus, carry this wisdom with you: in a world eager to sound smart, be the one who seeks to make sense. Choose honesty over ornament, meaning over manner, truth over theater. For words, when stripped of pretense and spoken from understanding, have the power to heal, to teach, and to endure beyond the fleeting applause of vanity. In that clarity of expression lives the highest form of intelligence — not the sound of greatness, but the substance of it.