Genius might be the ability to say a profound thing in a simple

“Genius might be the ability to say a profound thing in a simple way.” — thus wrote Charles Bukowski, the poet of the common man, whose raw voice rose not from marble halls but from the taverns, the tenements, and the streets of America. In this humble yet piercing reflection, Bukowski reveals the true nature of genius — not as a thing of arrogance or ornament, but of clarity, truth, and soul. To say something profound in a simple way is to strip language of pretense and reveal the living pulse of reality beneath. It is to speak not to the scholars alone, but to the beating hearts of all mankind.

The origin of this saying lies deep within Bukowski’s own struggle with life and art. A man who lived among hardship, poverty, and solitude, he distrusted intellectual vanity and the hollow beauty of complex words. He believed that the purpose of writing — and of all creation — was not to impress, but to express. True genius, he claimed, does not hide behind complexity; it brings light to darkness in words even a child can understand. In a world addicted to noise and cleverness, he sought instead the sacred power of simplicity — that mysterious grace by which a single phrase can carry the weight of a universe.

This idea is older than Bukowski, yet eternally renewed in each generation. The ancients, too, spoke of it. Lao Tzu, the sage of the Tao, wrote his wisdom in brief verses that flowed like water: “The wise man is one who knows what he does not know.” No ornament, no excess — only truth distilled. Jesus of Nazareth spoke in parables so simple that even the poor and the unlearned could grasp divine mysteries. Socrates, that giant of thought, never wrote a book; he asked simple questions until truth stood naked in the light. Through these voices echoes the same law: the greater the truth, the fewer the words it needs.

To say something profound in a simple way is not easy; it demands courage. For the mind delights in complication — in making itself appear clever through fog and flourish. But the heart longs for understanding. And only when one has wrestled long with meaning, purified it in the fires of doubt and experience, can one speak simply. The genius is not one who knows many things, but one who sees deeply into one thing — and reveals it in words so clear they seem inevitable. As Leonardo da Vinci said, “Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.”

Consider the tale of Albert Einstein, who spent years wrestling with the vast complexity of the cosmos — only to express the relationship between energy and mass in a single, perfect line: E = mc². In that simplicity lay worlds of meaning — power, time, and the structure of reality itself. Or think of Mahatma Gandhi, who changed an empire with words as bare as wind over sand: “Be the change you wish to see in the world.” That is the mark of true genius — not in speaking much, but in speaking true.

But Bukowski’s insight is not only about art or intellect; it is about living. For to live simply is itself a form of genius. In a world that glorifies complexity — endless ambition, endless distraction — it takes strength to choose clarity, honesty, and peace. The same principle that guides language also guides the soul: reduce, refine, reveal. To find truth, one must strip away the excess, until only the essential remains. The wise man speaks as he lives — directly, without fear, without disguise.

So, my listener, take this teaching to heart: seek simplicity, but not shallowness; pursue depth, but not obscurity. Do not mistake big words for big thoughts. The deepest truths are those that every heart can feel, though few can name. When you speak, let your words be clear as water; when you write, let them carry the weight of your life. And when you dream, dream of understanding, not impressing.

For in the end, the genius is not the one who builds towers of complexity, but the one who opens a window to the infinite with a single phrase. Such words, like Bukowski’s, endure — not because they dazzle, but because they live. They are simple, yes, but never small. They are the voice of eternity made human. And if you would touch that same greatness, learn this ancient art: to see deeply, to feel fully, and to say profoundly — in the simplest of ways.