In terms of sheer pleasure, Tom Stoppard was very big for me

When Greta Gerwig said, “In terms of sheer pleasure, Tom Stoppard was very big for me because he is so funny and so smart, and it felt delicious reading him,” she spoke not only as a filmmaker and writer, but as a lover of language — one who understands that true art nourishes the mind and the soul together. Her words are a hymn to intellectual joy, to the rare delight of encountering an artist whose wit and wisdom move in perfect harmony. In her phrase “it felt delicious,” she elevates reading from an act of study to an act of sensual delight, reminding us that when the human intellect meets beauty, the experience is not cold or analytical — it is ecstatic, even divine.

The origin of this reflection lies in Gerwig’s own creative awakening, shaped by her early encounters with the works of Tom Stoppard, the playwright whose dazzling command of wordplay and philosophy redefined modern theater. Stoppard, known for works such as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead and Arcadia, embodies the union of comedy and intellect, of laughter born from profound thought. To read him, as Gerwig describes, is to feel one’s own mind illuminated and entertained at once — a rare pleasure in any age. What she discovered in him was not just cleverness, but balance: a reminder that intellect need not be dry, that truth can dance, and that wisdom can arrive wearing the mask of humor.

The ancients, too, revered this marriage of wit and wisdom. The philosopher Socrates, whose dialogues inspired centuries of thinkers, was known for his humor — for turning argument into play, and play into revelation. To laugh while learning, he believed, was to learn with the whole self, for laughter opens the mind where pride would close it. Likewise, Stoppard’s humor disarms the reader, guiding them gently toward the depths of philosophy. Gerwig’s admiration for him, therefore, is not simply admiration for clever writing — it is reverence for an ancient ideal, one shared by all who seek to make thought itself a living, joyous art.

There is something deeply human in Gerwig’s confession. In an age when art is often measured by its seriousness or its moral weight, she celebrates pleasure — not as frivolity, but as revelation. “It felt delicious,” she says, and in those words lies a quiet defiance against the idea that joy and intelligence are opposites. The pleasure of Stoppard’s words is the pleasure of being alive to thought, of seeing one’s own intellect reflected and expanded through art. This is the same pleasure the poets of old felt when they heard Homer recited, or when the bards of Ireland sang of heroes with wit as sharp as their swords. It is the delight of recognizing that beauty and wisdom are not separate paths, but one road leading to wonder.

Gerwig’s insight also reminds us that great art awakens appetite. It does not merely instruct or impress; it makes us hunger for more of the world — for language, for laughter, for understanding. When she describes reading Stoppard as “delicious,” she reveals that the intellect, too, can crave. The mind, like the body, longs for nourishment — but it feeds not on information alone, but on the rhythm, texture, and humor of creation. In this sense, Stoppard’s brilliance — and Gerwig’s joy — belong to the lineage of Aristophanes, whose plays in ancient Athens made audiences laugh while revealing the absurdity of their politics and the grandeur of their folly. Humor, in the hands of the wise, becomes nourishment for the soul.

But Gerwig’s words also whisper a challenge to those who create. To be “funny and smart,” as Stoppard is, requires harmony between feeling and intellect, between the head and the heart. Many artists err by choosing one over the other — pursuing brilliance without warmth, or emotion without thought. Stoppard’s genius, and the “sheer pleasure” Gerwig found in him, remind us that the greatest art embraces both. It makes us think deeply and feel fully, leaving the taste of wonder upon the tongue. For what is “delicious” about reading him is not only the cleverness of his ideas, but the life pulsing beneath them — the laughter that redeems complexity, the joy that softens truth.

And so, my listener, let this be your lesson: seek out that which awakens both your mind and your heart. Do not settle for art that is merely clever, nor for pleasure that is empty. Seek the delicious union of humor and insight, of play and meaning. Read those who make you laugh and think at once; surround yourself with works that nourish you in both spirit and intellect. And if you create — whether in words, in work, or in life — strive, as Stoppard and Gerwig do, to make your craft a source of delight and reflection alike. For in a world that forgets how to laugh, the one who finds wisdom in joy is both artist and sage.

Thus, Greta Gerwig’s admiration becomes more than praise for a playwright — it becomes a meditation on what it means to love knowledge itself. To find pleasure in thought, to laugh at the beautiful absurdity of existence, to read until the mind feels illuminated and the soul satisfied — this is the true deliciousness of art. Let us therefore honor the sacred laughter of the wise, and remember that joy, when born from understanding, is the noblest pleasure of all.