I thought 'Deliverance' was a very good film. But it didn't have

The words of Burt Reynolds, “I thought Deliverance was a very good film. But it didn’t have the success financially that Smokey and the Bandit did, although that film made more money than Star Wars in the first week,” speak to a timeless conflict between art and commerce, between the noble pursuit of truth and the fleeting glory of popular acclaim. In these words is revealed the paradox that has followed artists since the dawn of creation: that the worth of a work is not always measured by the weight of gold it gathers, but by the resonance it leaves in the souls of men.

Deliverance, a film of profound tension, spoke to the primal struggles of survival, morality, and man’s confrontation with wilderness both external and internal. It was a work of depth, crafted with seriousness and intensity. Yet it was overshadowed, in numbers and in worldly success, by Smokey and the Bandit, a light-hearted chase, filled with laughter and speed, whose very spirit was born for entertainment. Reynolds, in honesty, does not deny the worth of either, but points us toward the eternal lesson: that society often rewards that which brings momentary joy, while overlooking the works that cut deeper into the heart of truth.

So too has this tale unfolded throughout history. Consider the philosopher Socrates, who labored in Athens not to delight but to challenge, not to amuse but to awaken. His teachings bore no coin, no applause from the masses. Instead, he was condemned. Yet his words endure to this day, while the trivial plays and shallow songs of his time lie forgotten in the dust. This is the eternal fate of those who craft works of substance: they may not shine in the market, but they blaze in the memory of humankind.

And yet, one must not despise popularity, for even in laughter there is worth. Just as the Romans cheered the spectacles of the Colosseum while Cicero thundered his orations, both served a people—one giving them escape, the other offering wisdom. Reynolds himself, through Smokey and the Bandit, brought joy to millions, joy that was no less real than the haunting reflections stirred by Deliverance. Here lies the dual calling of the artist: to feed both the fleeting hunger for delight and the deeper thirst for truth.

The lesson for us is clear: in our own labors, we must not measure our worth solely by recognition or riches. To do so is to chain our spirits to the applause of the crowd. Rather, let us judge our works by their integrity, by their power to endure, by the truth they bear. Wealth and numbers may come, or they may not—but if our work carries honesty, courage, and depth, it has succeeded beyond the measure of coins.

At the same time, let us not forget that even the light-hearted and playful have their place in the tapestry of life. A joke, a song, a simple tale may carry healing just as profound as a sermon or a tragedy. Do not despise joy because it seems shallow; sometimes, it is the laughter of a people that keeps their spirit alive through dark times.

Thus, the teaching of Reynolds’ words is twofold: seek to create works of truth, but do not disdain the works of delight. Do not be bound by numbers, nor made bitter by the world’s preferences. Instead, live as the ancients taught: with balance. Strive always to make what is good, what is honest, what is beautiful in its own measure.

So, children of tomorrow, when you put your hand to any craft—be it word, song, invention, or labor—do it not for applause, but for excellence. Honor both the laughter of the moment and the wisdom that will endure. For the marketplace forgets, but the soul remembers. And in the end, it is not the gold or the numbers, but the echo of truth and joy in human hearts that crowns a work with immortality.