I didn't go to university. Didn't even finish A-levels. But I

Hear, O listener, the wry but profound words of Terry Pratchett, the weaver of wit and worlds: “I didn’t go to university. Didn’t even finish A-levels. But I have sympathy for those who did.” Though clothed in jest, this saying holds wisdom as enduring as stone, for it speaks of the crooked paths by which men and women find their destinies, and of the vanity of measuring worth by the scrolls of formal learning alone.

For in every age, there are those who sit in halls of study, burning oil by night, striving to capture wisdom within books and examinations. Yet there are also those who learn beneath the open sky, who listen not to professors but to life itself. Pratchett belonged to the latter kind, one who, without university, still rose to cast a spell upon millions with the sharpness of his mind and the breadth of his imagination. His sympathy is not scorn but recognition—that the burden of academia can be heavy, its rites demanding, its trials long.

History, too, is filled with such examples. Consider the tale of Abraham Lincoln, who never knew the comfort of structured education, yet by candlelight taught himself the law and rose to guide a fractured nation. Or recall Leonardo da Vinci, who, without the laurels of formal study, became the very emblem of genius, blending art and science in a way no academy could contain. These lives proclaim that while the path of the university is noble, it is not the only road to greatness, and that wisdom flows from many springs.

Pratchett’s words are also laced with humility. For though he did not pass through the gates of higher learning, he did not belittle those who did. Instead, he offered sympathy—a gentle acknowledgement that the rigors of study, the weight of essays and examinations, the ceaseless demand to prove oneself in the eyes of institutions, are struggles in their own right. In this, he reveals the heart of a true sage: one who honors every path, whether paved by formal schooling or carved by raw experience.

And yet, hidden in his humor is a challenge: do not mistake certificates for wisdom, nor degrees for destiny. The true measure of a soul lies not in the letters after one’s name, but in the life one lives, the truths one uncovers, the beauty one creates. The scholar and the autodidact alike must confront the same questions: How shall I use what I know? How shall I serve the world with the gifts I possess? It is in this crucible, not in the classroom alone, that true greatness is forged.

The lesson for you, O seeker, is this: do not despise the path you walk, whether it leads through libraries or through the streets. If you have studied long in the halls of university, be grateful, but do not forget that wisdom is more than memory of books. If you have not, do not despair, for the world itself is a teacher, and experience, if embraced, is a school without end.

Therefore, let your pursuit be not merely of degrees, but of depth. Seek sympathy for the journeys of others, honoring their burdens as well as your own. And above all, measure yourself not by where you studied, but by what you have done with what you have learned. For in the end, as Pratchett himself proved, the brightest laurels are not hung on academic walls, but are woven into the lives of those who dared to create, to dream, and to leave behind a legacy of truth and laughter.

So remember: a scroll may certify learning, but it is the heart that certifies wisdom. Walk your path boldly, whether with books in hand or with none at all, and let your life itself be the truest testament to your education.