I know the world is filled with troubles and many injustices. But

When Oscar Hammerstein II declared, “I know the world is filled with troubles and many injustices. But reality is as beautiful as it is ugly. I think it is just as important to sing about beautiful mornings as it is to talk about slums. I just couldn’t write anything without hope in it,” he spoke as both artist and philosopher—a man who had looked deeply into the duality of existence and chosen hope over despair. His words are not a denial of suffering; they are an affirmation of balance. Hammerstein understood that life, in its truest form, is both shadow and light. To sing only of pain would be dishonest; to sing only of beauty would be blind. But to acknowledge both, and yet to let hope be the final note—that is the sacred task of the artist, and indeed of every soul seeking meaning in a broken world.

The origin of this quote lies in Hammerstein’s philosophy of storytelling through music and theater. As one of the great architects of American musical drama, his collaborations with Richard Rodgers produced timeless works—The Sound of Music, Carousel, Oklahoma!, and others—that dared to blend darkness and light in perfect harmony. He wrote about racism, poverty, and heartbreak, yet his songs also sang of sunrise, laughter, and redemption. For Hammerstein, art was not merely an escape from the harshness of life; it was a mirror that reflected both the suffering and the splendor of the human spirit. In his eyes, hope was not sentimentality—it was resistance, the refusal to let ugliness have the final word.

In his statement, Hammerstein acknowledges the troubles and injustices that plague the world—poverty, inequality, cruelty, and despair—but he does not allow them to define existence. “Reality is as beautiful as it is ugly,” he says, reminding us that truth is vast and layered. Even in the midst of sorrow, there is a sunrise waiting to break through the clouds. He saw that to dwell only on suffering is to miss the miracle that life continues, that joy still blooms amid ruin. Like the ancients who taught that the universe is woven of opposing forces—light and darkness, chaos and order—Hammerstein knew that to deny either is to misunderstand the whole. Hope, to him, was the thread that tied them together.

Consider the story of Anne Frank, a young girl who, hiding from tyranny and death, still wrote in her diary: “I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart.” She, too, saw the world’s injustices firsthand, yet she clung to its beauty. Her words, written in the shadow of despair, became an anthem of hope for generations. Hammerstein’s quote and Anne’s spirit sing the same melody—that even in the darkest places, one can choose to see light. This does not mean denying evil, but rather defying it by affirming that beauty still exists, that goodness still breathes, that even in horror, the soul can remain radiant.

Hammerstein’s artistic creed—to “sing about beautiful mornings as well as slums”—is also a moral lesson. It teaches that to heal the world, one must hold both truth and tenderness in hand. The artist who exposes injustice must also reveal the possibility of redemption. The citizen who fights oppression must also dream of peace. The heart that mourns must also know how to rejoice. Without this balance, activism becomes bitterness, art becomes despair, and life itself becomes hollow. To live without hope, he says, is to lose the very thing that makes us human. The song of hope is not naïve; it is necessary. It keeps the spirit from withering beneath the weight of reality’s cruelty.

In the style of the ancients, we may say: the man who sees only beauty is asleep, and the man who sees only ugliness is blind. But the one who beholds both and still chooses to sing—he is awake. Hammerstein belonged to that sacred lineage of visionaries who refused cynicism, who knew that to believe in goodness even when surrounded by darkness is an act of bravery. His art, like a temple, was built upon the foundation of that belief. Through every lyric, he invited humanity to remember that love, laughter, and song are not luxuries—they are the medicine of the soul.

So, children of the living earth, let this be your teaching: acknowledge the pain of the world, but never surrender to it. Let your eyes see both the slum and the sunrise. When you speak, let your words bear truth, but let them also carry warmth. When you work, when you create, when you love—infuse it with hope. For hope is not the denial of sorrow; it is the rebellion of the spirit against despair. As Hammerstein reminds us, to live and to create without hope is to silence the most human part of ourselves. Therefore, sing—sing of mornings and storms alike—but let your final note always rise toward the light.