I took a speed-reading course and read War and Peace in twenty

Hear, O listener, the jesting yet profound words of Woody Allen: “I took a speed-reading course and read War and Peace in twenty minutes. It involves Russia.” At first they strike the ear as comedy, a light remark made to draw laughter. Yet beneath the cloak of humor lies an ancient truth, one that speaks to the dangers of haste, the superficial glance, and the folly of attempting to grasp the depth of life without giving it the time it demands. For the greatest truths, like the greatest works, cannot be consumed in haste—they must be lived, endured, and slowly digested.

The origin of this saying lies in the modern obsession with speed, efficiency, and the shortcut. We live in an age where men and women crave results without journey, knowledge without study, mastery without patience. Allen mocks this desire, reducing the mighty novel of Tolstoy—an ocean of human struggle, philosophy, and history—into a trivial phrase: “It involves Russia.” What he reveals, though veiled in jest, is the absurdity of attempting to conquer vast complexity without the devotion of time.

The ancients knew well the value of slowness. Did not Aristotle proclaim that the pursuit of wisdom required contemplation, long reflection, and patience? Did not the Stoics teach that philosophy was a way of life, not a quick lesson to be skimmed? Even the scribes of old copied books by hand, letter by letter, sacrificing years to preserve the wisdom of the past. They understood that great works, like War and Peace, are temples of thought, to be entered with reverence, not glanced at in passing.

History too teaches us the folly of haste. Consider Napoleon’s invasion of Russia, a campaign rushed with arrogance, undertaken without the patience to consider the vastness of the land and the endurance of its people. He entered quickly, but he did not endure. Winter, distance, and resistance shattered his army. Here, Allen’s quip becomes a parable: to reduce Russia to a single phrase, or to approach it without respect, is to court disaster. The surface is not the substance, and haste blinds the eye to truth.

And yet, there is also a lighter wisdom hidden in Allen’s jest. For humor itself has long been the mask of philosophers. Diogenes the Cynic, living in his barrel, mocked the pretenses of society with jokes that concealed sharp truths. So too does Allen, through his remark, remind us not to take ourselves too seriously, even when grappling with the weight of Tolstoy’s masterpiece. To laugh at the absurdity of our impatience is to begin the journey toward humility.

The lesson, then, is clear: do not mistake the summary for the substance, nor the surface for the depth. Whether in books, in people, or in life itself, the richest treasures are revealed only to those who linger, who endure, who dwell long enough to see beneath the obvious. To read War and Peace in twenty minutes is to miss the countless lives, battles, loves, and philosophies within it. Likewise, to rush through life is to miss its essence. Patience is the gate to wisdom, and haste its enemy.

Practical wisdom follows. Take time each day to slow down: read not for speed but for understanding, listen not for reply but for comprehension, live not for efficiency alone but for depth. When faced with complexity, resist the urge to reduce it to a single phrase—whether it be a nation, a book, or a human soul. Instead, open yourself to the long labor of true knowledge. For in patience, you will find joy; and in slowness, clarity.

So remember Allen’s quip, both as jest and as oracle: War and Peace is not “about Russia,” but about the vastness of humanity itself. And life, too, is not about rushing from beginning to end, but about dwelling in its pages. Laugh at the folly of haste, but do not live by it. Choose instead the path of patience, depth, and reverence—and you will find wisdom blooming where others saw only triviality.