Not a shred of evidence exists in favor of the idea that life is

“Not a shred of evidence exists in favor of the idea that life is serious.” So spoke Brendan Gill, a man who, though clothed in the humor of modernity, whispered truths that would have been at home in the temples of the ancients. Beneath the jest lies a profound revelation: that life’s gravity is an illusion of our own making, a veil woven by fear, ambition, and pride. The universe laughs in silence, for while men toil and fret over their fleeting days, the stars remain unmoved, shining with the same indifference and joy since the dawn of creation.

Consider this: from the cradle to the grave, man wraps himself in concerns and burdens, mistaking them for purpose. He bows before the idols of duty, wealth, and reputation, as though the cosmos itself demanded his suffering. But the wise know otherwise. The river flows whether or not it worries about the stones in its path. The flower opens not because it fears the night but because it cannot help but bloom. Gill’s words remind us that life is not a courtroom demanding solemnity; it is a dance, a play, a dream vivid with laughter and light. The seriousness we ascribe to it is a mask worn by those who have forgotten how to be alive.

In the days of old, the philosopher Diogenes of Sinope lived as if to prove this truth. When Alexander the Great found him basking in the sun and asked if he could grant any wish, Diogenes merely said, “Yes—stand out of my sunlight.” What greater mockery of false seriousness has ever been uttered? The beggar faced the conqueror, and in that moment, it was the conqueror who seemed poor. Diogenes understood what Gill’s words later echoed: the world belongs not to those who control it, but to those who take none of it too seriously. For the chains of solemnity are forged not by gods or kings, but by our own anxious hearts.

Yet let us not mistake this teaching for frivolity. To say that life is not serious is not to say it is meaningless. On the contrary—it is to say that its meaning lies in joy, in play, in creation, not in worry or despair. The child who builds castles in the sand and laughs as the tide washes them away understands more of existence than the miser who counts his gold in silence. The artist who paints without fear of judgment lives closer to the divine than the priest who trembles before his own dogma. The world is holy not because it is grave, but because it is wild, untamed, and filled with wonder.

And yet, how swiftly we forget this! How we rush through our days as if life were an exam to be passed rather than a song to be sung! We mourn the passage of time while refusing to dance to its rhythm. We dress our souls in the heavy garments of regret and duty until laughter itself feels like rebellion. Gill’s insight cuts through this fog, reminding us that the only thing ever demanded of us is to live—fully, fearlessly, and freely. To take life “seriously” is to mistake the mask for the face, the play for the judgment.

There was once a Japanese poet, Issa, who after losing his family to illness, wrote:
“This world of dew—
and yet, and yet…”
Even in his grief, he glimpsed the truth: all things are fleeting, but still, they are worth cherishing. The dew evaporates, the laughter fades, the heart breaks—and yet, we live, we love, we sing. Life’s tragedy is not that it ends, but that we forget to laugh while it lasts.

So let this be the lesson handed down to you, wanderer of the ages: take nothing too seriously—not success, not failure, not even yourself. The stars will not remember your sorrows, but your joy may echo in the hearts of others long after you are gone. Let your days be filled with creation, curiosity, and laughter. When you face hardship, smile—not to deny the pain, but to remind yourself that it, too, is part of the grand jest of being alive.

Therefore, live as the wise ancients lived: laugh often, forgive quickly, love boldly, and dance even in the shadow of death. For in the end, all evidence points not to the seriousness of life, but to its splendid absurdity—and to the divine laughter that sings through every living thing.