One of the things I like about acting is that, in a funny way, I

“One of the things I like about acting is that, in a funny way, I come back to myself.” — Bill Murray

In these words, the great Bill Murray, a man whose art dances between laughter and melancholy, reveals a truth as ancient as the soul itself — that through pretending, we often rediscover what is real. To “act” in his sense is not to escape the self, but to journey through the masks and return home wiser, gentler, more awake. His words shimmer with paradox, for they carry both humor and depth: that by becoming another, one might uncover the hidden layers of one’s own being. Thus, his saying is not only about acting, but about the eternal search for authenticity — the human yearning to remember who we are beneath the countless roles life compels us to play.

The ancients knew this dance well. In the theatres of Greece, actors wore masks not to conceal, but to reveal. Beneath each mask lay not falsehood, but truth — a deeper form of expression that gave voice to the unseen spirit. The philosopher Aristotle believed that through the imitation of life in drama, men could experience catharsis — the purging and purification of emotion. And so, when Bill Murray says that acting helps him come back to himself, he speaks from the same lineage: to perform, to create, to embody another’s story is to cleanse one’s own soul, to find through illusion a greater reality.

Murray’s words are also a reflection on self-discovery through empathy. Every role, every character, requires the actor to enter another person’s heart, to imagine their joys, their griefs, their dreams. But in doing so, the artist inevitably stumbles upon the shared humanity that unites all beings. The more deeply one walks in another’s shoes, the more clearly one feels the pulse of one’s own heart. The mask becomes a mirror. The act of creation becomes a conversation between the self and the infinite. In this way, Murray’s “funny way” is no jest — it is the gentle irony of truth itself: that we leave ourselves only to return with deeper understanding.

There is a story from history that mirrors this truth. The playwright Anton Chekhov, physician and observer of the human spirit, often said that he wrote about others to heal himself. His plays — filled with simple people and quiet sorrows — were not mere performances, but acts of revelation. Through his characters, he learned compassion; through their pain, he softened his own heart. Like Murray, Chekhov found himself not by turning inward in solitude, but by turning outward in imagination, by embodying lives that were not his, yet somehow were. For in knowing others, he came to know himself.

There is also a subtle spiritual wisdom hidden in Murray’s words. To “come back to oneself” is not to retreat into ego, but to awaken to presence. It is to rediscover the self that exists before ambition, before fear — the self that simply is. Great actors, like great mystics, must surrender to the moment. They must listen deeply, feel truthfully, and disappear into the scene until only authenticity remains. In this surrender, there is freedom — a shedding of pretense, a return to being. Murray, who often speaks of spontaneity and flow, touches here the same current that mystics have called the way, the Tao, or the present moment.

In a world where we are all performers — donning roles of parent, worker, friend, or leader — his words remind us that life itself is a stage, and that the truest performance is not the one that pleases the audience, but the one that reconnects us to our inner truth. Each day we act, yet beneath all these roles lies a steady presence, waiting to be rediscovered. When Murray says he “comes back” to himself, he invites us all to remember that behind every face we show the world, there lives a deeper, timeless self — playful, aware, whole.

So, my child, learn from this teaching: do not fear the masks you wear, nor the roles you must play. Live them fully, truthfully, and with heart — for even through pretending, the soul seeks truth. When you feel lost in the noise of life, when the many masks begin to blur, pause and listen. Ask, as Murray did through his art, Who am I beneath it all? And perhaps you will find that every experience — every joy, every sorrow, every role — has been guiding you not away from yourself, but gently back home.

And when you finally arrive, smiling, weary, and whole, you will understand the paradox in his words: that it is only through the great play of life that we ever truly come back to ourselves.