Personally, I would sooner have written Alice in Wonderland than

“Personally, I would sooner have written Alice in Wonderland than the whole Encyclopaedia Britannica.” Thus spoke Stephen Leacock, the humorist and philosopher of humanity’s lighter spirit, whose words shine with quiet rebellion against the tyranny of dry knowledge. In this declaration, Leacock honors imagination over intellect, wonder over mere information. He proclaims that a single tale born of creative genius and childlike vision holds greater power than volumes filled with the cold precision of facts. For what nourishes the soul is not the inventory of what is, but the dream of what might be.

Leacock’s words arose in an age when modern man was drunk on knowledge. The libraries of the world were swelling; science was dissecting mystery; the intellect had become a god. Yet Leacock, with his keen wit, saw the poverty hidden beneath this wealth. Facts, he knew, could fill the mind but leave the heart barren. To him, the writer of Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll, had achieved something far greater than the scholars of reference books — for Carroll had awakened the imagination of generations, calling forth laughter, curiosity, and the eternal innocence of the human spirit. He had created a world that, though absurd, was more true than the encyclopedia’s endless catalog of truths.

To understand the depth of this saying, one must look beyond its humor and see the wisdom it conceals. The Encyclopaedia Britannica is a monument of intellect — vast, precise, unyielding. It seeks to capture the sum of human knowledge, to explain every object, event, and concept within the bounds of reason. Yet it cannot capture the shimmer of a dream, the laughter of a child, or the secret language of wonder that lives in the heart. Alice in Wonderland, by contrast, dwells entirely in the impossible — a world where logic collapses and imagination reigns. But in that dream, truth is revealed: that reality is not fixed, that thought can dance, and that meaning is often hidden in play.

Consider, for example, Albert Einstein, who once said that “imagination is more important than knowledge.” It was not the accumulation of facts that led him to his discoveries, but the boldness to dream — to picture himself riding upon a beam of light, to see beyond what eyes could see. The encyclopedist records what already exists; the dreamer creates what does not yet exist. And so it is with Carroll and the childlike heart that shaped his tale. His Alice did not merely entertain; she taught humanity how to wonder again, how to question the familiar, how to step through the mirror into possibility.

Leacock’s statement, then, is not a dismissal of learning but a defense of imaginative wisdom — that deeper knowing which speaks not to the mind but to the spirit. Knowledge may build civilizations, but imagination gives them meaning. Knowledge can light a city, but imagination teaches the soul what that light is for. The encyclopedist catalogs the stars; the dreamer teaches us to wish upon them. Leacock, himself a professor, knew the worth of scholarship, yet he also knew its limits. To create something that makes men feel alive, that stirs the sleeping child within — this, he believed, was the highest art.

History bears witness to this truth. The builders of cathedrals were not mere engineers; they were dreamers who shaped stone into prayer. The poets of old — Homer, Dante, Shakespeare — gave to mankind not facts, but visions that still live centuries later. Their works outlast the laws and records of their time because they speak to something immortal in us. As Leacock suggests, to write Alice in Wonderland is to open the gates of the timeless; to write the Encyclopaedia Britannica is to bind oneself to time. One endures because it is useful; the other endures because it is beloved.

So, dear listener, take this lesson to heart: seek not only to know, but to imagine. Let your learning serve your wonder, not smother it. Facts may teach you how the world works, but imagination shows you why it is worth living in. Do not measure wisdom by the weight of books, but by the lightness of heart. Cherish those who make you dream — for they keep humanity alive. As Stephen Leacock teaches, it is better to write a single page that awakens the soul than a thousand volumes that leave it untouched. For knowledge may sustain life, but imagination — that divine, playful fire — gives life its meaning, its beauty, and its joy.