There's such an odd, eclectic group of people that make up the

In the words of Eliza Coupe, “There's such an odd, eclectic group of people that make up the town of Plymouth, New Hampshire. I don't think I could avoid not coming out of there with a pretty good sense of humor.”
Though lighthearted, these words conceal an ancient truth — that humor is born not from ease, but from diversity, from the rich and unpredictable dance of human difference. Coupe’s reflection on her hometown is more than nostalgia; it is a meditation on how community, in all its strangeness and variety, shapes the soul. In her words, we hear the echo of wisdom that has endured through centuries: that laughter is the bond that unites the varied hearts of mankind, the music that rises when many voices learn to live in harmony.

When she speaks of an “odd, eclectic group of people,” she honors the imperfect beauty of humanity itself. No two people see the world in the same way, yet when their lives intertwine — through work, friendship, or chance — something sacred occurs. From that collision of perspectives arises understanding, humility, and, most often, humor. For laughter is the language of reconciliation; it bridges what seriousness divides. Coupe’s sense of humor, shaped by the tapestry of Plymouth’s people, is thus not merely a gift of wit, but the fruit of empathy — the ability to see beyond oneself and find joy in the contrasts of others.

The origin of such laughter reaches deep into the soul of community. In the marketplaces of ancient Athens, philosophers and commoners alike gathered not only to trade goods, but stories. Their humor was sharp, but their laughter was shared. Aristophanes, the comic playwright of Greece, filled his plays with citizens of every class — the noble and the foolish, the dreamer and the cynic — all brought together by laughter. Through satire, he reminded the Athenians that their city’s strength lay not in perfection, but in the vibrant clash of differences. So it is with Coupe’s Plymouth — a small town, yet a world entire, where humor becomes the mortar that holds the walls of community upright.

And what is humor, if not the wisdom of survival? To live among the eclectic, the “odd,” and the unpredictable is to learn flexibility of spirit. The one who can laugh at life’s chaos is not crushed by it. In the ancient deserts, the Bedouins told stories and jokes around their campfires after long days of hardship. They laughed at their misfortunes and at each other’s quirks, not to dismiss their trials, but to release them. In laughter, they found strength to face another dawn. So too did Coupe’s hometown, in its gathering of different souls, teach her that humor is the art of resilience — the grace of finding delight even when the world refuses to conform to expectation.

There is also humility in her words. To say “I don’t think I could avoid not coming out of there with a pretty good sense of humor” is to admit that humor is not always chosen — sometimes it is learned through necessity. It is the lesson the world gives to those who live among contrasts: that if one cannot laugh, one will only argue, or despair. Humor, then, is the soul’s wisdom, the choice to see unity rather than division, joy rather than offense. The eclectic town becomes a teacher, and laughter its sacred text.

Consider Mark Twain, who, born into the rough and colorful world of 19th-century America, drew his humor from the voices around him — sailors, preachers, conmen, and dreamers. From that cacophony, he created comedy that transcended culture and time. Like Coupe, he learned that the best humor does not rise from mockery, but from the honest observation of humanity’s contradictions. His laughter was not cruel, but compassionate — a mirror in which all could see themselves and smile.

Thus, the wisdom in Eliza Coupe’s words is this: embrace the diversity that surrounds you, for it is the birthplace of humor, tolerance, and joy. Seek not to escape the strange, but to understand it. When you find yourself among those who differ from you, do not close your heart — open it, and laugh together. Laughter, born from acceptance, is not the laughter of scorn, but of kinship. It is the laughter that turns neighbors into family, and strangers into friends.

And so, dear listener, remember her truth: “I don’t think I could avoid not coming out of there with a pretty good sense of humor.” Let your own life be like her Plymouth — a gathering of varied souls, a garden of differences. Learn to laugh not in mockery, but in love. For humor, when touched by understanding, is the highest form of wisdom — the song of a soul that has learned to find light in all the colors of the human spirit.