Since it's based on my parents, it's more emotionally close to me

Hear the voice of Christopher Durang, playwright of sharp wit and hidden sorrows, who confessed: “Since it’s based on my parents, it’s more emotionally close to me than some of my more surreal plays. And then I like the balance of the comic and the sad. It should play as funny, but you should care about the characters and feel sad for them.” These words, though simple, reveal the eternal rhythm of storytelling, and indeed of life itself—that laughter and grief are bound together, and that only in their union does the human spirit truly shine.

The heart of this saying rests in the balance between opposites. Comedy without sadness becomes shallow; sadness without comedy becomes unbearable. But when the two are woven together, the soul is touched in its fullness, both softened by humor and deepened by sorrow. Durang understood this ancient art, known to the Greeks in tragicomedy, where the clown’s mask and the mourner’s veil are never far apart. To laugh and yet feel moved to tears—that is the highest form of art, for it mirrors the mystery of existence itself.

The origin of Durang’s words lies in his own story, drawn from the intimacy of family. By basing a play on his parents, he reached into the wellspring of memory and emotion, making the story more than entertainment—it became an echo of his own life. This closeness gave the characters flesh and blood, for they were not inventions alone, but reflections of love, disappointment, longing, and laughter. Thus, what began as personal memory became universal art, because truth—when spoken sincerely—always touches beyond itself.

The ancients also knew this weaving of comedy and sorrow. Consider Aristophanes, who cloaked his critiques of Athens in playful humor, yet beneath the laughter lay deep sadness for the state of his city. Or recall Shakespeare, centuries later, whose King Lear breaks the heart even as the Fool provides bitter laughter. The lesson is clear: the greatest storytellers do not choose only joy or only sorrow, but blend both, so that the audience walks away not merely entertained, but changed.

One might think, too, of the story of Charlie Chaplin, who made the world laugh with the Little Tramp’s antics, yet always laced his comedy with pathos. In films like City Lights, the audience laughs at his clumsy charm, but they also weep at his silent devotion to the blind flower girl. Like Durang, Chaplin knew that the characters must be loved, that laughter alone is empty unless it springs from caring about someone fragile, someone real.

The lesson for us is this: in life as in art, seek the balance. Do not despise laughter in times of sorrow, nor reject sorrow when you are surrounded by joy. To laugh in hardship is not to betray pain, but to endure it with courage. To feel sorrow in the midst of laughter is not weakness, but proof of compassion. By allowing both to exist together, we live more fully and more truthfully.

Practical wisdom calls to us: when you tell your story—whether on a stage, in a book, or in daily life—do not hide the sorrow, but do not let it smother the laughter either. When you meet others, allow yourself both to care for their struggles and to find lightness in their company. If you create, let your art reflect not only the comedy or the tragedy, but both, for only then will it mirror the human heart.

Thus, the words of Christopher Durang endure as guidance for artists and for all who live: “It should play as funny, but you should care about the characters and feel sad for them.” May we embrace this wisdom in our own journeys, finding the sacred tension between joy and sorrow, and living in such a way that our lives, like the greatest plays, bring both laughter and tears to those who witness them.