What is extraordinary about the character of Edna - and I speak

When Barry Humphries said, “What is extraordinary about the character of Edna — and I speak as though I am completely outside this character and I am talking to you — I’m, as it were, in the wings, and she’s on stage, and every now and then she says something extremely funny, and I stand there and think: ‘I wish I’d thought of that,’” he was not merely describing the craft of comedy — he was revealing the mystery of creation itself. His words illuminate a truth known to every great artist and philosopher: that the act of creation, when it reaches its highest form, becomes something beyond the self, a force that seems to take on a life of its own. Humphries speaks as one possessed — not by madness, but by the living spirit of his own imagination. His creation, Dame Edna Everage, had grown so vivid, so alive, that she spoke through him as if he were merely her vessel.

The origin of this reflection lies in Humphries’ long and luminous career as a performer, satirist, and writer — the man behind the purple-haired housewife from Moonee Ponds, whose wit skewered vanity, fame, and pretension with affectionate cruelty. Over decades, Humphries had inhabited Edna so fully that the line between creator and creation blurred. Yet in this quote, he describes a strange inversion — the artist stepping aside, astonished by the brilliance of his own invention. He is, as he says, “in the wings,” watching her perform. This is not delusion, but reverence — for when art achieves true power, it transcends the limits of its maker. The artist gives birth to something that begins to speak back.

The ancients would have understood this moment as divine inspiration — the visitation of the Muse. The poets of Greece spoke of being “seized” by the gods, of becoming instruments through which divine voices sang. Homer was said to be guided by the Muse Calliope; Socrates spoke of his daimon, an inner spirit that whispered truths not his own. Humphries, in his way, expresses the same sacred phenomenon: that art is not entirely human labor but partnership with the unseen. When he marvels, “I wish I’d thought of that,” he acknowledges that genius often arrives not as possession, but as possession by the creative spirit. The artist becomes both master and servant — the hand that shapes, and the heart that listens.

Yet there is something profoundly human and humble in Humphries’ insight. His laughter is not pride but awe. He stands as both father and audience to his creation, admiring her independence. In this, he touches the paradox of all great art: that to create something truly alive, one must let it go. The sculptor Pygmalion, who carved a statue so beautiful that it came to life, stands as an ancient echo of Humphries’ experience. Pygmalion loved his creation so much that the gods granted it breath; but in that moment, he ceased to control it. So too, Humphries’ Edna — once a mask for his satire — became a being who spoke truths he himself had not consciously conceived.

There is also in his reflection a lesson about the power of humor. Edna was not merely a character of laughter, but of revelation. Through her, Humphries could say what could not be said plainly — she was his fool, his mirror, his prophetess. The ancients placed jesters in the courts of kings not to amuse, but to reveal truth through absurdity. In this sense, Edna was both sacred and subversive. Her voice was larger than her creator’s, her wit sharper than his hand could plan. That Humphries stood “in the wings” as she spoke is the mark of a true artist: one who listens as much as he performs, who is astonished by what emerges from the interplay of imagination and truth.

From this revelation comes a deep wisdom about the self. Each of us carries within us voices, possibilities, personas that we do not yet know. We are not single beings but choruses of potential, waiting to be given form. Humphries teaches us that creativity — whether through art, speech, or simple living — is a way to meet those hidden selves. To create sincerely is to open a door within the soul and allow something greater to step through. The moment we feel, “I wish I had thought of that,” we are witnessing the miracle of that encounter — the birth of something both from us and beyond us.

So, dear listener, let this be your lesson: do not fear the mystery of your own imagination. When you create, whether in art, work, or love, listen for the voice that surprises you — the one that speaks wiser, funnier, or kinder than you believed yourself to be. That voice is your inner Edna, your divine spark, your muse in disguise. Stand, like Barry Humphries, humbly “in the wings,” and let that part of you take the stage. For the highest joy of creation is not control, but wonder — to marvel at what has come forth, to laugh, and to whisper with gratitude, “I wish I’d thought of that.”

Thus, in the story of Barry Humphries and Dame Edna, we find not only the tale of a comedian and his character, but the eternal truth of the human spirit: that our greatest creations are not possessions, but revelations. When we create, we converse with the infinite — and sometimes, it is the infinite that answers back with a joke so good, even we must laugh in awe.