I'm a bug on acting, which distinguishes Second City from a lot

When Bernard Sahlins said, “I’m a bug on acting, which distinguishes Second City from a lot of other revues. It comes from the character, the behavior, and not from the jokes. I don’t think jokes are funny. Humor comes out of character and out of situations the character is in,” he was not merely describing his philosophy of theater—he was describing the nature of truth itself. His words echo the wisdom of ages: that laughter, like understanding, springs not from artifice but from authenticity. Humor, in its truest form, is not the cleverness of the tongue but the honesty of the soul revealed through action. He was saying, in essence, that truth is funnier than invention, and that to make others laugh, one must first learn to be real.

The origin of this reflection lies in Sahlins’s role as a co-founder of The Second City, the legendary Chicago theater that became the cradle of modern improvisational comedy. There, he nurtured performers not to chase punchlines, but to build worlds. He taught that comedy was not the product of jokes, but of people—characters whose flaws, contradictions, and desires made them deeply human. To Sahlins, a well-timed joke was fleeting, but an honest moment of human folly was eternal. The audience did not laugh at the crafted quip; they laughed in recognition of themselves. That was the art he pursued—the laughter that awakens, not the laughter that distracts.

When he says, “I don’t think jokes are funny,” he is rebelling against the superficial. He reminds us that there is a difference between noise and meaning, between laughter born from craft and laughter born from truth. A joke is a spark—it amuses and disappears. But humor that springs from behavior, from the way a character moves through the world, endures. It mirrors life itself, where the comedy lies not in the line we say, but in the contradiction between our intentions and our reality. The ancients understood this deeply. The playwright Aristophanes, master of Athenian comedy, did not simply tell jokes; he exposed society’s vanities through his characters’ absurdities. The laughter of his audience was a mirror—a reflection of their own human foolishness.

Sahlins’s belief that humor comes from character and situation speaks to a larger truth about art and humanity. We are drawn to stories, not because they dazzle us with wit, but because they reveal us to ourselves. Consider Charlie Chaplin, whose silent films remain immortal though he spoke not a word. His humor arose not from jokes, but from behavior—the tramp’s clumsy dignity, his endless optimism against despair. The audience laughed because they recognized in him their own struggle to maintain grace amid chaos. Chaplin’s comedy was human, not clever; it was truth in motion, the same truth Sahlins demanded of his actors.

In this way, Sahlins was not merely speaking to performers, but to all who seek to communicate, to live with depth. He was teaching that character—who you are—matters more than performance—what you say. Whether on a stage or in life, authenticity is the source of all connection. People may forget your words, but they will remember your behavior, your spirit, your presence. The joke fades, but the human moment endures. True humor, like true wisdom, emerges from being fully alive and aware, even amid imperfection.

His philosophy is also a lesson in humility. To create art—or to live—with depth, one must surrender the ego’s desire to impress and instead observe, listen, and embody. The greatest actors, like the greatest souls, do not force laughter; they reveal life’s own comedy through sincerity. This is why Sahlins’s performers at Second City went on to shape generations of storytelling—because they learned not to chase approval, but to honor the reality of the moment. As he knew, truth is the soil from which laughter grows, and without it, humor becomes empty sound.

So, my children of word and performance, take this wisdom to heart: do not seek to be funny—seek to be real. Whether in art or in life, it is not the crafted jest that moves others, but the genuine reflection of what it means to be human. Let your humor rise from empathy, from observation, from the small, strange moments that make up existence. Learn to laugh at yourself, not to escape truth, but to embrace it. Be the kind of person whose behavior speaks louder than your words, whose authenticity draws joy naturally from others.

And thus, remember the teaching of Bernard Sahlins: “Humor comes out of character and out of situations the character is in.” To live this wisdom is to honor both art and life—to understand that laughter is sacred, a divine spark born from the interplay of truth and folly. For the world will always crave jokes, but what it needs—what it has always needed—are characters: men and women who live honestly, act sincerely, and reveal, through their behavior, the eternal comedy of being human.