I can't not put humor in a book.

The artist Albert Brooks, both philosopher and comedian, once said: “I can’t not put humor in a book.” Simple though it may sound, this confession is not merely about style — it is about nature, about the essence of one’s being. In these few words lives the eternal truth that what flows from a soul cannot be separated from it. Just as a river cannot deny its course, or the dawn its light, so too can the true artist not withhold what defines him. For Brooks, that essence is humor — not the shallow laughter of mockery, but the sacred kind that redeems pain and reveals truth through joy.

To say “I can’t not put humor in a book” is to declare fidelity to one’s authentic self. Brooks does not adorn his art with laughter as an ornament — it is his language, his blood, his instinctive way of seeing. In this, he joins the lineage of the wise who knew that humor is not the enemy of truth, but its companion. The ancient storytellers, the poets, the prophets — all used laughter to disarm the heart, to make wisdom gentle enough to be heard. For laughter, when born from insight, opens the soul more swiftly than argument. It pierces pride, humbles grief, and reminds humanity that life, however tragic, remains wondrously absurd.

The ancients themselves revered this balance. Think of Diogenes of Sinope, the philosopher who mocked the pomp of kings by living in a barrel, who carried a lamp through Athens “seeking an honest man.” His humor was not cruel; it was liberating — a torch against hypocrisy. Through laughter, he unveiled the vanity of power and the folly of pretense. Brooks, in his own age, stands in the same lineage — an heir to the comic sages who use humor as revelation, whose jokes conceal the medicine of understanding. For the laughter they inspire is not empty sound; it is a doorway to clarity.

Yet beneath Brooks’s words lies something even deeper — the necessity of humor in the human spirit. “I can’t not,” he says, as if humor is not a choice but a survival instinct. Indeed, the soul that has seen sorrow often learns to laugh not from ignorance, but from courage. The great comedians of every generation have known this secret: that to laugh is to endure. Like the mythic Sisyphus, who pushed his stone with defiance, they lift their burdens through wit. Humor becomes the art of transforming pain into play — a defiance of despair itself.

But Brooks’s statement is not only about the artist; it is about all who create — writers, thinkers, teachers, dreamers. It reminds us that what is authentic within cannot be silenced without cost. Each person bears an inner note, a tone of truth that, when suppressed, leads to sorrow. To deny one’s natural voice — whether of humor, gentleness, or fire — is to betray the soul’s rhythm. The wise therefore learn not to imitate the voices of others, but to honor their own. Brooks’s “I can’t not” is an act of creative integrity, a vow to remain whole, even when the world demands conformity.

And so, the lesson shines clearly: do not fear the lightness that dwells in you. Do not mistake joy for shallowness, nor laughter for weakness. There is holiness in mirth, for it teaches resilience and grants perspective. The world may prize solemnity, but truth often walks hand in hand with humor. As Brooks reminds us, if it lives within you, let it live also in your work — for that is how authenticity breathes. The artist who hides his nature loses not only his joy, but his power to touch others.

Therefore, walk through life as Brooks does through his art — with humor as a compass, guiding you through the labyrinth of existence. When sorrow comes, let laughter be your lantern. When pride tempts you, let irony humble you. When fear rises, let wit make it small. For humor, rightly understood, is the laughter of the soul that has made peace with the world’s imperfections. And to live, create, and love with such laughter — that is no mere talent. It is a form of wisdom, the oldest and truest there is.