Say what you will about the ten commandments, you must always

“Say what you will about the Ten Commandments, you must always come back to the pleasant fact that there are only ten of them.” — H. L. Mencken

In this sharp and ironic observation, H. L. Mencken, the fiery journalist and philosopher of wit, lays bare one of the oldest tensions in human civilization — the conflict between law and liberty, between the need for guidance and the exhaustion of being ruled. His humor, like a blade sheathed in laughter, reveals the human weariness toward endless commandments, endless rules, endless moral instruction. By saying it is a “pleasant fact” that there are only ten, Mencken reminds us that simplicity in moral law is both a mercy and a miracle — that in a world quick to legislate every corner of behavior, restraint is wisdom. His jest, though playful, conceals a sigh of relief: that even the divine, in its infinite authority, chose to keep things brief.

The origin of this quote reflects Mencken’s lifelong skepticism of institutions — religious, political, or social — that imposed rigid codes upon human life. Living in the early twentieth century, he witnessed the age of reformers and moralists, each proclaiming new rules for how men should eat, think, love, and believe. The air of his time was thick with commandments — written not on stone tablets, but in newspapers, pulpits, and parliaments. Against this flood of rules, Mencken turned to satire. When he speaks of the Ten Commandments, he honors them not as dogma, but as a model of restraint: simple, profound, and, above all, few. His humor carries the deeper truth that wisdom is not measured by how many laws we make, but by how few we need.

The ancients knew this balance well. In the days of Moses, when the mountain thundered and the tablets were given, the people stood trembling before divine simplicity. Ten laws — not ten thousand — were enough to shape a civilization. They were not a code of bureaucracy, but a compass of spirit. The Ten Commandments did not tell men how to speak, eat, or walk; they told them what not to forget — reverence, honesty, fidelity, humility. They were not a cage, but a guidepost. Mencken’s humor thus becomes an echo of ancient wisdom: that moral clarity thrives in simplicity, and that complexity often serves confusion, not enlightenment.

History, too, offers countless examples of this truth. Consider the Code of Hammurabi, the ancient Babylonian law carved into stone nearly two millennia before Moses. It held hundreds of decrees — elaborate, precise, unyielding. And yet, for all its detail, it lacked the spiritual breath that gives law its life. It bound men by fear, not by faith. The Ten Commandments, by contrast, endured not because they were exhaustive, but because they were essential. In ten strokes, they spoke to the heart of man — his duty to the divine, his duty to his neighbor, and his duty to himself. Mencken, who lived among mountains of legislation and sermons, saw the irony clearly: the ancients, with their brevity, were wiser than modern reformers with their endless words.

But Mencken’s quote is not merely a commentary on religion or law; it is also a reflection on the human condition. We are creatures who crave both freedom and order, both guidance and autonomy. Too little law breeds chaos; too much law suffocates the soul. The genius of the Ten Commandments lies not only in their moral content but in their number. Ten is a human number — countable on the fingers, memorable in the mind, and bearable to the conscience. It acknowledges our limits, both of obedience and of understanding. Mencken delights in that mercy — the “pleasant fact” that morality, in its purest form, is not an encyclopedia, but a handful of truths to live by.

Even in his jest, Mencken offers a kind of reverence — not toward the sacredness of the Commandments themselves, but toward the discipline of simplicity. He understood that when societies multiply their rules, they often lose sight of justice. When individuals multiply their doctrines, they often lose sight of truth. The ancients would have called this hubris, the pride of overcomplication. For the wise know that life, like good poetry, needs rhythm, not clutter; clarity, not verbosity. Mencken, though clothed in laughter, teaches that true wisdom lies in brevity — in the courage to say little, and the strength to mean much.

So, my child, learn from this lesson: seek simplicity in your principles, and depth in your understanding. Do not drown in the thousand commandments the world will give you — what to buy, how to look, whom to please. Instead, remember the power of ten: a few timeless truths that govern heart and mind. Speak truthfully, act kindly, honor what is sacred, and harm none. Let these few be your commandments, written not on stone, but on the heart. For the world will always try to bury you beneath endless rules and expectations, but the wise, like Mencken, smile and say — it is enough that there are only ten.

And perhaps that is the final wisdom in his humor: that laughter itself is one of the great commandments unwritten. To see the world’s absurdity and still find joy — that is the mark of freedom. To recognize that simplicity is the soul of wisdom — that is the mark of understanding. And to count, with gratitude, that even the divine once stopped at ten — that is the mark of humility.