Money can't buy happiness, but it can make you awfully

The wise and sharp-tongued Clare Boothe Luce, a woman of wit and worldly insight, once declared: “Money can’t buy happiness, but it can make you awfully comfortable while you’re being miserable.” These words, half jest and half truth, carry the weight of a thousand lived experiences. In them lies a paradox both ancient and eternal—the struggle between wealth and contentment, between what the body craves and what the soul requires. For though gold may purchase silks, palaces, and pleasures, it cannot buy peace; it cannot heal the silent hunger of the heart.

In her age, Luce saw men and women rise to power and fall into despair. She lived among those who possessed everything that the world calls success—fame, influence, luxury—and yet found themselves lonely, restless, and haunted. Her words are not a rejection of wealth, but a warning cloaked in wit: money may ease your discomfort, but it cannot lift the burden of a spirit in turmoil. To mistake comfort for happiness is to mistake the glow of firelight for the warmth of the sun.

The ancients, too, spoke often of this truth. The philosopher Epicurus taught that happiness is found not in abundance but in simplicity—bread, friendship, and freedom from fear. He who desires little, he said, possesses everything. And yet, how often do mortals chase gold as though it were salvation? Like thirsty travelers in a desert, they drink from mirages, thinking them springs. Money, when sought as a master, becomes a cruel deity, granting ease to the body while starving the soul. But when used as a servant, it may clothe, feed, and sustain the journey toward higher joys.

Consider the tale of Howard Hughes, one of the richest men of the twentieth century. He built empires in the sky, conquered industries, and accumulated vast fortune. Yet, in his final years, he lived shut away from the world—paranoid, sickly, and tormented by loneliness. His riches bought him comfort, but not happiness. His grand hotels became prisons; his money, a chain. The very wealth that once promised freedom became the gilded cage that held his misery. Thus was Luce’s wisdom fulfilled—he was “awfully comfortable while being miserable.”

Still, it would be folly to scorn money entirely. Poverty is no virtue when it leads to despair, nor is suffering noble when it can be relieved. The comfort wealth brings is real—warmth against winter, medicine for sickness, shelter from the storm. It is not wrong to seek it, only dangerous to worship it. As the old saying goes, money is a fine servant but a terrible master. Let it serve your higher purpose, not define your worth. Let it build, not bind.

True happiness, my children, springs not from possessions but from peace, from love, and from the knowledge that one’s life holds meaning. It is found in the laughter shared between friends, in the labor done with pride, in the quiet of a clear conscience. Gold cannot purchase these treasures; it can only decorate their absence. Seek therefore not merely to live comfortably, but to live wisely. Let your comfort support your soul, not suffocate it.

The lesson of Luce’s words is clear: pursue wealth with awareness, and guard your heart from its glittering deceit. Enjoy what you earn, but remember that the richest home is poor without joy, and the simplest hut is rich with love. Use your resources not only for your pleasure but for the good of others, for generosity transforms gold into grace.

So live by this wisdom: earn honestly, give freely, and never mistake comfort for contentment. Let your money serve your happiness, but never believe it can create it. For when the night of life falls and all your treasures lie still, only the warmth of your deeds, the kindness you’ve shared, and the peace within your soul will remain—and that, my children, is the wealth that no fortune can buy.