Like all young men I set out to be a genius, but mercifully

Hear the words of Lawrence Durrell, whose wit cut through the vanity of youth with wisdom both sharp and tender: “Like all young men I set out to be a genius, but mercifully laughter intervened.” In this saying, the poet confesses a truth that has echoed through the ages: that the ambition of youth is often lofty, inflated, and severe, yet it is tempered by the gift of humor, which rescues the soul from arrogance and guides it toward humanity. It is not a rejection of greatness, but a recognition that greatness without laughter becomes brittle and vain.

The first image he gives is of the young man—a creature full of fire, convinced that destiny has marked him for genius, for immortality. Youth, in its boldness, sees the summit of the mountain and believes it was born to stand upon the peak. This is the ancient hunger for glory, the same drive that led Alexander to conquer worlds before the age of thirty, or poets to believe their verses would outlast the stars. Yet Durrell acknowledges what few admit: such beginnings are almost universal, for who among the young does not dream of being extraordinary?

But then, laughter intervened. What does this mean? It means that life, in its strange mercy, humbled him with humor. Laughter breaks the spell of self-importance. It reminds us that we are human, fallible, ridiculous at times. Without it, the pursuit of genius hardens into pride, and pride decays into isolation. With laughter, ambition is softened into joy, creativity is freed from fear, and the genius becomes not a god above men but a companion among them. Durrell gives thanks for this intervention, as though laughter itself were a divine hand pulling him back from the cliff of arrogance.

History offers countless mirrors of this wisdom. Consider Abraham Lincoln, who bore the immense weight of war and leadership, yet who wielded humor as both shield and balm. He once said, “I laugh because I must not cry.” Humor sustained him, kept his heart from breaking beneath the burden of tragedy. His genius lay not only in his vision but in his ability to remain human, to laugh even in darkness. Without laughter, his brilliance might have turned to despair or tyranny.

Or think of Winston Churchill, whose wit was as sharp as his speeches were mighty. He knew that in the face of fear, humor disarms both enemy and friend alike. It was laughter that kept him human, that allowed him to inspire without becoming overbearing. His genius was inseparable from his humor, for it was laughter that made him bearable and beloved, even as he carried the fate of nations upon his shoulders.

Thus the lesson is plain: ambition without laughter is a burden too heavy to bear. The young may strive for genius, but they must learn to laugh at themselves, at their own failures, at the absurdity of life. In laughter, they find humility; in humility, they find connection; and in connection, they find the true seed of greatness. For the world does not love the man who declares himself a genius—it loves the man who, while brilliant, remains human enough to laugh.

Practical is this counsel: if you strive for greatness, do so with joy. Let your seriousness be tempered by play, your ambition softened by humor. Do not fear to laugh at your own mistakes, for in doing so you show that your spirit is stronger than pride. Surround yourself with those who make you smile, and remember that true genius is not only in thought, but in the ability to share warmth, mirth, and humanity with others.

So remember Durrell’s wisdom: “Like all young men I set out to be a genius, but mercifully laughter intervened.” Let laughter intervene in your own life, so that ambition may be guided by humility, brilliance tempered by joy, and greatness crowned not by pride, but by the ability to make others smile even in the shadow of sorrow. For laughter, like a divine gift, rescues the soul from vanity and gives it wings of light.