Instead of getting married again, I'm going to find a woman I

The words of Lewis Grizzard—“Instead of getting married again, I’m going to find a woman I don’t like and give her a house.”—are draped in humor, but forged in the fires of experience. Beneath their laughter lies the weary wisdom of a man who has seen both the beauty and the cost of love. Grizzard, a Southern writer known for his wit and self-deprecating humor, spoke not as a cynic, but as one who had been tempered by heartbreak. Through jest, he told a timeless truth: that marriage, when broken, leaves not only an ache in the heart, but a toll upon the spirit and the home. His words, though sharp, carry the melancholy of one who once believed in love’s promise and was disillusioned by its price.

The origin of this quote rests in the ashes of Grizzard’s own life. Married four times, he knew well the joys and sorrows of commitment. His humor, like that of many who bear deep scars, was his shield—a way to speak truth without bitterness. By jesting that he might as well “give a house” to a woman he disliked, he was mocking the painful realities of divorce, where the parting of love so often becomes a division of possessions, and what once was shared becomes a battlefield of pride. Beneath his laughter, one can hear a sigh—the sigh of a man who had loved, lost, and learned that even affection, when mishandled, can cost dearly.

But let not this jest be mistaken for despair. In the style of the ancients, the fool’s laughter often hides the philosopher’s truth. Grizzard, with his humor, reminds us that love, though noble, must be entered with wisdom. Too often, people rush toward marriage chasing the shimmer of romance, not realizing that love is not merely passion, but discipline, patience, and sacrifice. When love fails, it is not always because it was false, but because it was not tended—like a fire left to smolder without care. His jest, therefore, becomes a warning: that one who enters the bonds of marriage must do so with open eyes, not blinded by desire nor fear of loneliness.

In this, history offers many mirrors. Consider the story of King Henry VIII, who, in his hunger for affection and legacy, married six times—each union born of passion and pride, and most ending in ruin. His palaces were filled with wealth, yet his heart remained restless. He gave not merely houses, but kingdoms away in pursuit of love’s illusion. His story, like Grizzard’s jest, reminds us that love without humility becomes tyranny, and that the price of repeating mistakes is often greater than the comfort of solitude. The wise, therefore, learn to find peace within themselves before seeking it in another.

Grizzard’s humor also speaks to the human tendency to seek laughter where there is pain. Those who have suffered in love often jest about it, for humor can be the gentlest form of truth. By exaggerating his own misfortune, he freed others to laugh at theirs, to find solace in the absurdity of life’s trials. Yet beneath that laughter lies an ancient lesson: pain, when accepted with grace, becomes wisdom, and wisdom, when shared with laughter, becomes healing. His jest invites us not to scorn love, but to approach it with reverence, aware of its power to both build and break.

So, my child, take this teaching to heart: love is not a gift to be given lightly, nor a prize to be won, but a covenant to be built daily with honesty and humility. If you marry, do so not because of emptiness, but because of fullness—because your spirit seeks not to possess another, but to share the burden and the beauty of life. If you have known heartbreak, let it make you wiser, not colder. Remember that humor, when born of pain, is not mockery, but resilience—the soul’s way of saying, “I have suffered, but I am still standing.”

And thus, when you hear Grizzard’s words, laugh—but listen. His jest is a mirror of life itself: where joy and sorrow walk hand in hand, where folly teaches truth, and where even broken hearts find strength through laughter. The lesson is this—do not fear love, but do not worship it blindly. Enter it with courage, leave it with dignity, and carry its lessons forward as treasures of the soul. For only the wise can laugh at love’s wounds and still believe in its power to heal.