If you can get humor and seriousness at the same time, you've

In the quiet voice of an artist who has sung both joy and sorrow, Paul Simon once spoke a truth that belongs not only to music but to all of life: “If you can get humor and seriousness at the same time, you’ve created a special little thing, and that’s what I’m looking for, because if you get pompous, you lose everything.” These words are a song of balance, a hymn to the harmony between lightness and gravity, between laughter and meaning. For Simon knew that in art, as in the human spirit, the deepest truths are not found in solemnity alone, but in the marriage of humor and seriousness—a union that keeps wisdom alive and pride in check.

The ancients too understood this secret harmony. In the plays of Sophocles, in the tales of Aesop, even in the laughter of Socrates, we see this dance between mirth and reflection. The wise did not scorn humor; they used it as a chisel to carve truth into the heart. To speak with laughter and purpose together is to reach both the mind and the soul. For humor disarms where argument hardens, and seriousness anchors where levity might drift away. When joined, they form a power both tender and eternal—the power to move hearts without arrogance, to teach without preaching.

Paul Simon’s own songs bear this mark of wisdom. In “Mrs. Robinson” or “You Can Call Me Al,” one hears the playfulness of sound wrapped around words that pierce the modern soul. Beneath the laughter lies the ache of searching, the longing for meaning in a restless age. He understood that art becomes pompous when it forgets to smile, when the artist stands above life rather than within it. True art—and true humanity—requires humility, the ability to laugh at oneself even while seeking the divine. For to lose that humility is to lose touch with the very heart of creation.

Consider the example of Charlie Chaplin, another artist who walked this sacred balance. In his silent films, the tramp’s foolishness often drew laughter—but behind every stumble was a tear, behind every gag a cry for dignity. His art spoke to the poor, the lonely, and the dreamers of every land. He never grew pompous, never rose above the people he portrayed. He remained one of them, finding humor in hardship and seriousness in joy. And that, as Simon said, was a “special little thing”—a gift that transcends time.

There is danger in forgetting this balance. The man who grows too serious becomes heavy and self-important, blind to life’s absurdity. The one who is only humorous becomes shallow, dancing forever on the surface of things. But the wise soul walks between these worlds, carrying a smile that hides no emptiness and a depth that bears no vanity. When Simon warns that “if you get pompous, you lose everything,” he speaks not only to artists but to all who strive to live with meaning. Pride isolates; laughter reconnects. The proud speak at the world, but the humble laugh with it.

To live as Simon teaches is to walk with awareness—to see the world’s folly and still love it, to face its pain and still find light. Whether in music, leadership, or friendship, seek that sacred mixture: truth with warmth, earnestness with wit. Speak seriously, but never take yourself too seriously. The moment you forget to laugh, you begin to drift away from life itself.

So, children of creation, remember this: when you find yourself speaking, writing, or simply living, let both humor and seriousness dwell in your voice. Do not fear contradiction—they are not enemies, but companions. The heart that can laugh in the midst of understanding is the one that remains alive. And when the shadow of pomposity tempts you—when you feel the weight of your own importance—smile, and let it fall away. For laughter is not the enemy of greatness; it is its guardian.

Thus, the teaching of Paul Simon endures: the artist, the thinker, the soul who can hold both light and depth, both humor and seriousness, creates something sacred—a “special little thing” that touches eternity. Seek that balance in your life, and you will never lose yourself, nor the song that lives within you.