Do not say a little in many words but a great deal in a few.

In the quiet dawn of ancient Greece, when wisdom was spoken like flame from the lips of the divine, Pythagoras—the sage of numbers and harmony—uttered a truth that has outlived empires: “Do not say a little in many words but a great deal in a few.” These words, though simple, carry the weight of centuries, for in them lies the secret of clarity, discipline, and the power of speech itself. To speak much and say little is to scatter seed upon stone; to speak little and say much is to plant truth in the soil of the soul.

Pythagoras, who sought the music that binds the universe, understood that speech, like sound, has measure. Every word, he taught, carries a vibration that can heal or destroy, uplift or obscure. Thus, words must be chosen with reverence, as one would select sacred tones to compose a hymn to the gods. The wise do not waste their breath in excess, for silence and brevity reveal what noise conceals. The unwise man adorns emptiness with many syllables, yet the sage cloaks infinity in few.

There was once a time when Sparta stood as a testament to this principle. The Spartans, known for their deeds more than their tongues, spoke with what the world came to call Laconic speech—brief, sharp, and filled with force. When Philip of Macedon threatened their lands, saying, “If I enter Laconia, I will raze Sparta to the ground,” they replied with a single word: “If.” That one utterance carried more courage than a thousand speeches. It was a fortress built of syllables—unyielding, complete. Here we see the spirit of Pythagoras’ wisdom made flesh: a great deal in a few.

The ancients knew that truth does not need adornment, only presence. Gold, when pure, shines without polish; wisdom, when true, requires no ornament of words. Those who seek to impress with speech often conceal ignorance beneath layers of sound, while the enlightened, with a few well-honed phrases, reveal the whole of their understanding. Even the divine spoke in brevity: “Let there be light”—and there was light. The greatest truths, like the breath that gives them life, are brief yet boundless.

Consider also the words of Abraham Lincoln, who centuries later embodied this same wisdom. In the midst of civil war, he stood upon the fields of Gettysburg and spoke but 272 words. Yet those few sentences carried the weight of a nation’s grief and the promise of its rebirth. Countless speeches before and after have been longer, louder, grander—but few have carried such eternal resonance. Lincoln, knowingly or not, followed the path of Pythagoras: he chose meaning over magnitude, essence over echo.

To live by this teaching is to master both mind and heart. For brevity is not silence—it is the art of distilling thought until only truth remains. When you speak, do not seek to fill the air; seek to fill the soul. Speak less, but say more. Let your words fall like arrows—rare, deliberate, and true. And when silence serves better than speech, be unafraid to let the quiet speak for you. The wise know that silence itself can thunder.

The lesson, then, is clear and eternal: Guard your words as you would guard your honor. Weigh them as gold upon the scales of reason and empathy. Do not waste them on vanity or haste, for words, once loosed, cannot return. Practice restraint, and your voice will gain the gravity of truth. Speak only when your heart is still and your thought is clear—then even a whisper shall carry the strength of an army.

So let these words of the ancient master echo in your life: “Do not say a little in many words but a great deal in a few.” Make your speech a reflection of your soul—measured, radiant, and sincere. Let every word you utter bear meaning, like a flame that lights the way for others. And when the world grows loud with empty talk, be the one whose silence is golden, and whose few words, when spoken, change everything.