What a strange world this would be if we all had the same sense

In the tapestry of human existence — vast, vibrant, and infinitely varied — Bernard Williams, the philosopher of irony and intellect, once mused: “What a strange world this would be if we all had the same sense of humor.” At first, his words may seem light, almost playful. Yet within them lies a profound truth about the divine diversity of the human spirit. For laughter, like love, is not meant to be uniform. It is the echo of our differences, the melody of our minds in conversation with one another. Were we to all laugh at the same things, the world would not be harmonious — it would be hollow.

Humor, Williams reminds us, is the mirror of the soul. It springs from one’s culture, one’s pain, one’s dreams, and one’s contradictions. It is shaped by what we value and what we fear. To have the same sense of humor, then, would be to erase the individuality of thought and experience — to strip humanity of its unique colors and sounds. Imagine a world where every joke stirred the same laughter, where no surprise could blossom from another’s wit — such a world would be dull indeed, a garden of identical flowers with no fragrance of difference. Laughter, in its truest form, thrives on contrast; it lives in the interplay of perspectives.

The philosopher spoke not to mock sameness, but to praise variety. He understood that humor is one of the last sanctuaries of freedom. When all else is bound by rules, laughter remains untamed. One man may find delight in irony, another in absurdity; one woman may laugh through sorrow, another through mischief. This diversity of laughter is what makes civilization beautiful. Each person’s humor is a window into their humanity, and through it, we glimpse the vastness of the human heart.

History gives us many lessons on this truth. Consider the meeting of Mark Twain and Queen Victoria’s England. Twain, with his American wit — bold, irreverent, alive with the dust of the Mississippi — entered a world of polished etiquette and restrained laughter. At first, his jokes were misunderstood; his humor, too rustic for royal ears. Yet, as he spoke, his sincerity shone through, and laughter began to ripple through the halls of refinement. In that moment, two worlds met — not in conflict, but in communion. Humor became the bridge between cultures, between propriety and freedom. It was different laughter, yes — but it was shared laughter all the same.

If the world’s laughter were one note, harmony would die. It is the diversity of humor — the way we each find joy through different lenses — that reminds us to respect the multiplicity of human thought. When we laugh together despite our differences, we prove that connection does not demand conformity. To understand another’s humor is to understand their soul; to dismiss it is to close the door on empathy. Thus, Williams’s words are both a warning and a celebration — a warning against the tyranny of sameness, and a celebration of laughter’s infinite forms.

Humor, when honored in its diversity, becomes a source of unity without erasing individuality. It teaches us to listen, to be curious, to delight in perspectives unlike our own. The fool laughs only at himself; the wise learn to laugh with the world. To appreciate what another finds funny — even when we do not — is to say, “I see your heart, and I respect its rhythm.” That, too, is a form of love.

So, let this teaching be remembered: embrace the many voices of laughter. Seek not to make all mirth alike, but to rejoice in the difference. When someone’s humor confuses you, do not judge — listen. When your own laughter surprises others, share it freely. Let laughter remain the wild flower of humanity — different in every soil, yet rooted in the same joy. For as Bernard Williams taught, if we all had the same sense of humor, the world would indeed be strange — not because it would be too different, but because it would have forgotten how to be beautifully, gloriously human.