There are three kinds of men. The one that learns by reading. The

Hear the words of Will Rogers, wry yet filled with truth: “There are three kinds of men. The one that learns by reading. The few who learn by observation. The rest of them have to pee on the electric fence for themselves.” At first, these words strike us with humor, yet within them lies a lesson carved from the marrow of experience—the many ways by which men seek wisdom, and the folly of those who refuse to learn except through their own pain.

The first kind, those who learn by reading, are blessed with imagination and humility. They need not endure every hardship themselves, for they trust in the words of others, in the wisdom recorded through generations. They are heirs of books, scrolls, and sacred teachings. By turning pages, they avoid scars. These are the students of history, who know that to ignore the written lessons of the past is to walk blind into disaster.

The second kind, rarer and more difficult, are those who learn by observation. They watch closely, with eyes that see not only what is before them but what lies beneath it. They do not need to touch the flame to know it burns; they witness another’s agony and choose a different path. These are the keen-eyed sages, the ones who learn from the folly of kings, the sorrow of neighbors, the mistakes of friends. They save themselves by listening, by watching, by understanding without needing to fall.

But the last kind, the majority, are those who insist upon learning only by pain. They must test the fence. They must make the mistake. They laugh at warnings until the jolt of consequence runs through their body. These are the stubborn souls who confuse recklessness with courage, who scorn advice, who refuse to believe until reality scorches them. Rogers speaks with humor, but his image is clear: most men will not learn until they have suffered.

History abounds with examples. Consider Napoleon, who marched into Russia despite centuries of generals who had failed against its winters. He learned not by books, not by observation, but by his own ruin. Contrast this with leaders like Abraham Lincoln, who steeped himself in history and law, reading by candlelight as a poor boy, learning lessons without the ruin of war until destiny called him. One chose the fence; the other chose the book. One perished in arrogance; the other shaped a nation through wisdom.

The lesson is plain: seek to be among the first two kinds. Do not wait for the sting of the fence when countless books and lives already testify to the truth. Read deeply, and observe wisely. Let the mistakes of others spare you your own suffering, for time is too precious to waste in preventable pain. And when pain does come—as it must to all men—let it teach you swiftly, so you need not repeat it.

So let Rogers’ words be carried forward not only as humor but as guidance. Do not live as one who laughs until the current of folly strikes. Train yourself to learn by reading and by observation, for in these lies the path of wisdom. The world is filled with fences already tested; you need not waste your years proving that they shock. Instead, let your energy be spent not in needless suffering, but in the noble work of building, creating, and leading—having learned the lesson before the pain.