I don't have a very quick sense of humor.

The great showman Florenz Ziegfeld, whose name once illuminated the marquees of Broadway, humbly declared: “I don’t have a very quick sense of humor.” To some, this may seem a confession of limitation, yet to those who listen deeply, it is the admission of a man who understood that not all wisdom springs from speed, and not all laughter is born of wit. Ziegfeld, the architect of the famous Ziegfeld Follies, who surrounded himself with performers of grace, music, and mirth, reveals here something profound about patience, perception, and the quiet art of understanding joy. His humor was not quick — but it was deep.

To say “I don’t have a very quick sense of humor” is to admit that laughter, for him, was not reactionary but reflective. In a world that prizes swiftness of tongue and immediacy of wit, Ziegfeld’s words stand as a meditation on the value of contemplation. For there are those who laugh quickly — the jesters of the moment — and those who laugh slowly, the ones who feel the pulse of meaning beneath the joke. Ziegfeld’s laughter may have come later, but when it did, it was richer, fuller, grounded in comprehension rather than impulse. His was not the laughter of the shallow ripple, but of the deep tide — the kind that rises slowly, carrying both understanding and warmth.

This slower sense of humor often belongs to the creators, dreamers, and architects of beauty — those who see not only the jest, but the humanity within it. Ziegfeld, as a producer and visionary, was a man who perceived the comedy of life not in fleeting punchlines, but in the great theater of existence itself. He did not need to be the one who spoke first or laughed loudest. He was the one who watched, listened, and understood. In this way, his humility becomes a form of wisdom — for true humor, like true art, is born from observation. It requires not only speed, but empathy.

History is filled with such souls who were slow to laugh, yet whose laughter shaped the world. Consider Abraham Lincoln, whose melancholy soul carried a quiet, profound humor. His wit was not quick, but measured — a humor born from sorrow, a smile carved by endurance. When asked how he could joke in the midst of war, he replied that humor was the only way to keep his heart from breaking. Like Ziegfeld, Lincoln did not chase laughter; he cultivated it, as one tends a fragile garden within a storm. His humor was the laughter of understanding — the kind that brings peace, not noise.

Ziegfeld’s self-awareness also teaches us the strength of restraint. The man who admits he does not possess quick humor reveals mastery over pride. He does not pretend to be what he is not; instead, he honors his nature. This honesty — this acceptance of temperament — is a mark of inner clarity. In an age, both then and now, where people compete to be clever, to speak first and think later, Ziegfeld’s statement is an act of quiet rebellion. He reminds us that life is not a contest of wit, but a search for meaning.

His humility also invites reflection on the many kinds of intelligence. The quick wit may dazzle the crowd, but the slow thinker sees the pattern beneath the moment. In laughter, as in life, there is space for both. The fast humorist brings light to the instant; the slow humorist brings wisdom to the ages. Ziegfeld’s art — his dazzling productions of music and dance — were not the products of speed, but of patience, vision, and deliberate creation. His humor may not have been quick, but his understanding of joy was vast. He made audiences laugh, marvel, and dream, even if his own laughter came softly and late.

The lesson in Ziegfeld’s words, then, is one of acceptance and depth. Do not envy the quick laughter of others, nor despise your own slower rhythm. There is wisdom in waiting before you laugh — for in that waiting, you may see what others miss. Cultivate humor not as reaction, but as revelation. Seek the laughter that uplifts rather than mocks, that connects rather than divides. Let your humor, like Ziegfeld’s art, be a bridge between hearts, not a race of tongues.

So remember, dear listener: the speed of laughter matters less than its sincerity. Some find joy in the flash of the moment; others in the glow that lingers after understanding dawns. Both have their place, but it is the slower laughter — the one born from compassion and reflection — that endures. As Florenz Ziegfeld teaches, do not rush to jest or to judge. Let life unfold, and when the humor comes, let it come as the dawn does — slow, radiant, and full of grace.