I'm a novelist first, and I wrote a bunch of books, and

When Jonathan Tropper said, “I’m a novelist first, and I wrote a bunch of books, and everything I write, I just find people are more interesting when there’s an element of humor to it,” he was not merely speaking of storytelling — he was speaking of life itself. For what is a novelist, if not a seeker of truth through the human heart? And what is humor, if not the spark that reveals the light within that heart, even amid the shadows of suffering? In this statement, Tropper expresses a wisdom known since ancient times: that to understand humanity, one must embrace both its tragedy and its laughter, for together they form the full melody of the soul.

To say that “people are more interesting with humor” is to acknowledge that laughter is not a distraction from depth, but its companion. Humor is the pulse of awareness, the reminder that even in pain, the spirit can still rise and smile. The ancients saw this truth clearly. The Greeks spoke of the dual mask of theatre — one face for tragedy, one for comedy — yet both carved from the same stone. To laugh is not to deny sorrow; it is to stand beside it and transform it. Tropper, in his novels and his life, follows this eternal rhythm. His characters stumble through grief, heartbreak, and confusion, yet they never lose the ability to laugh. In that laughter, they remain human, and in their humanity, they become unforgettable.

The origin of this quote lies in Tropper’s craft as a writer, but its spirit transcends the page. As a storyteller, he learned that pure sorrow alienates the reader, and pure joy rings false. It is only when both are interwoven — when the tears shimmer beside the smile — that we see the truth of being alive. This philosophy echoes that of William Shakespeare, who filled his darkest tragedies with flashes of wit, and his lightest comedies with shadows of pain. Shakespeare, like Tropper, knew that laughter is not weakness — it is wisdom, the wisdom of those who understand that the heart must bend, or it will break.

Consider the story of Abraham Lincoln, who, in the midst of war and grief, was known for his sharp humor. His laughter was not callousness, but courage — a way to keep his soul from sinking beneath the weight of suffering. When accused of being too lighthearted during grave times, he once replied, “If I did not laugh, I should die.” That, too, is Tropper’s understanding. To add humor to life, to writing, or to pain, is not to trivialize it, but to honor the resilience of the human spirit. It is the art of turning despair into endurance, sorrow into song.

In every age, there are those who mistake humor for foolishness. Yet the wise know that humor is the highest form of empathy. To laugh with someone is to see their struggle and still celebrate their being. The humor that Tropper speaks of is not cruel mockery or shallow jest, but a humor of compassion — the kind that reminds us we are all imperfect, fragile, and striving together. It is the laughter that arises when we see our own reflection in another’s folly, and forgive ourselves through the sound of it.

Tropper’s insight also teaches us something about the craft of life itself. Each of us is a novelist of our own days, writing moments of joy and despair, triumph and loss. The question is not whether tragedy will find us — it will — but whether we will face it with bitterness or with humor. Those who can find lightness, even in the darkest chapters, are the ones who endure. They do not laugh because life is easy; they laugh because they understand it is difficult. Humor, then, becomes not an escape, but a way through — a lantern held high in the long night of existence.

So, my listener, take this lesson from Jonathan Tropper’s words: infuse your story with laughter. Whether you are writing on paper or in the unfolding book of your own life, let humor be your companion. Do not fear to smile at your mistakes, to laugh at your own humanity, to find joy in the midst of chaos. For humor, when it is born from understanding, is the sound of wisdom breathing. It reminds us that the soul, though burdened, is unbroken.

In the end, Tropper’s truth is the truth of the ancients: that a life — or a story — without humor is incomplete. To live well, to write well, to love well, we must remember that laughter and sorrow are not enemies, but partners in the dance of being. Seek the balance. Let your heart feel deeply, but let it also laugh freely. For as long as you can still laugh, you are still alive — and as long as you can make others laugh, you are sharing the most sacred gift of all: hope.