Q was naughty, you know? He's naughty. He's not evil. He's not

"Q was naughty, you know? He’s naughty. He’s not evil. He’s not all good. He’s sort of bad. You get to play him the way you roll out of bed in the morning." Thus spoke John de Lancie, the actor who embodied the trickster-god of the cosmos in Star Trek. These words, though describing a character of fiction, touch upon one of the deepest truths of existence: that life is not lived in absolutes, but in the tension between good and bad, order and chaos, seriousness and play. The role of Q, in all his mischief, mirrors the ancient archetype of the trickster, whose purpose is not to destroy but to disrupt, not to condemn but to awaken.

The naughty spirit of Q is not evil, but unsettling. He is the mirror that reflects our vanity, the storm that shakes our complacency, the laughter that mocks our solemn pretensions. In calling him “not all good, not all bad,” de Lancie places Q within the eternal tradition of those figures who walk the boundary lines: Loki of the Norse, Hermes of the Greeks, Coyote of the Native American tribes. These beings are unpredictable, irreverent, often irritating—but their presence is necessary, for they reveal what order alone would conceal.

To play such a figure, de Lancie says, is like the way you roll out of bed in the morning. It is spontaneous, raw, unguarded. Some mornings you rise joyful, others weary, others mischievous. It is in this natural, unpolished energy that Q is brought to life. The meaning is clear: the trickster does not overthink or calculate; he arises from the heart’s immediate state, and in that honesty he reveals truths that the polished masks of society cannot.

History is filled with moments when the “naughty” figure played a sacred role. Think of Diogenes the Cynic, who carried a lantern through Athens in daylight, claiming to search for an honest man. He mocked the pomp of Alexander the Great, telling him to stand aside and stop blocking the sun. Was Diogenes evil? No. Was he wholly good? Not in the moral sense. He was naughty—a disturber of comfort, a challenger of pride, a speaker of inconvenient truths. In him, as in Q, the playful irreverence became a tool of wisdom.

De Lancie’s reflection also reminds us of the human condition itself. None of us are wholly good or wholly bad. Each day, we wake with a mixture of both—light and shadow bound together in the heart. The wisdom lies not in denying this tension, but in accepting it, harnessing it, and expressing it with honesty. To admit the “naughtiness” within us is to acknowledge our humanity. To pretend to be purely virtuous is to wear a mask that will eventually shatter.

The lesson is this: embrace the trickster within yourself. Do not fear the parts of you that are playful, mischievous, or unorthodox. Use them wisely, as a means to disrupt complacency, to question false authority, to remind yourself and others that life is not only duty but also play. At the same time, do not let the trickster within rule without balance—for untempered mischief can turn destructive. Like Q, live in the paradox: not all good, not all bad, but alive, vital, and true.

Practical action flows naturally: each morning, as you rise, notice how you roll out of bed. Are you heavy? Light? Mischievous? Serious? Bring that energy honestly into your day, but shape it with awareness. If joy, share it; if mischief, use it to question and to reveal; if solemnity, let it serve as discipline. And above all, do not deny that every day brings a different self into the world. The trickster teaches us to live authentically, whatever state greets us at dawn.

Thus John de Lancie, speaking of Q, gives us more than an insight into acting. He gives us a philosophy of life: that to live fully is to embrace our contradictions, to honor the naughty spirit that disrupts but also enlightens, and to remember that wisdom often wears the mask of mischief.