Clarity, clarity, surely clarity is the most beautiful thing in

Hear the words of George Oppen, poet of steel and silence, who declared: “Clarity, clarity, surely clarity is the most beautiful thing in the world. A limited, limiting clarity I have not and never did have any motive of poetry but to achieve clarity.” In this cry we hear the hunger of a soul that sought truth stripped of ornament, a mind that wished to pierce fog and confusion until only the essence remained. For Oppen, clarity was not only the aim of poetry but its very justification. Where others might chase beauty in mystery, or delight in riddles, he saw beauty in the simple, shining surface of truth unveiled.

The meaning of his words strikes like lightning: art, thought, and life itself gain dignity not through the piling up of complexities, but through the revelation of what is simple and real. A limited clarity, one that confines truth to a narrow prison, he rejected. But a true clarity, one that frees, illuminates, and brings all things into sharp relief, he cherished as the most beautiful of all pursuits. In this sense, Oppen was heir to the ancients, who declared that wisdom begins with seeing things as they are, not as we wish them to be.

Consider the words of the philosopher Aristotle, who wrote that the mark of knowledge is to know the cause, to understand the essence of a thing without being deceived by shadows. He sought, like Oppen, a kind of clarity that would pierce illusion. And in history we find this again in the life of Galileo, who lifted the telescope to the heavens. Men before him spoke in riddles and clung to false patterns of the cosmos, but Galileo sought only clarity—to see, to know, to name the stars as they truly are. Though condemned in his day, the clarity he sought could not be silenced, and it lit the path for all who followed.

In poetry, too, there are those who obscure and those who reveal. Some wrap meaning in veils so heavy that the reader is lost in labyrinths. But Oppen, like the haiku masters of Japan, sought a word as clear as water, as simple as stone, as radiant as morning light. For him, poetry was not an escape into fancy, but a return to the essential. To speak plainly of the world, to make it visible in its fullness—that was his task. Thus he proclaims that his only motive was clarity, as if to say: “I write so that the world may be seen, not hidden.”

There is also courage in such a pursuit. For the human mind often prefers illusion, prefers to be comforted by half-truths and shadows. To embrace clarity is to risk pain, to see things as they are, even when harsh or unkind. But in this acceptance lies freedom. Just as the mountain climber sees the world most clearly from the summit, so the seeker of truth finds beauty not in distortion but in reality, however sharp its edges may be.

The lesson, then, is timeless: seek clarity in your own life, in your words, and in your actions. Do not cloud your speech with falsehood, nor your thoughts with self-deception. Let your relationships be built on transparency, your work upon honesty, your art upon truth. For when you strip away confusion and illusion, you will find that clarity itself is beauty, a beauty more enduring than decoration or disguise.

Practical is this path: when you write, strive to make your words plain, so they shine with truth. When you speak, let your meaning be clear, not muddied with pretension. When you think, cut through the noise of opinion until you arrive at what is real. In this way you will honor Oppen’s teaching: that clarity is not only a poet’s aim but the soul’s deepest hunger. And if you achieve it, even in part, you will discover the most beautiful thing in the world.