You can't make up anything anymore. The world itself is a satire.

Hear the sharp yet sorrowful words of Art Buchwald: “You can't make up anything anymore. The world itself is a satire. All you're doing is recording it.” This saying pierces like a double-edged sword, for it reveals both the absurdity and the tragedy of the age. Satire, once the tool of poets to expose folly through exaggeration, has been overtaken by reality itself. The deeds of men, the choices of rulers, the madness of nations—these surpass even the imagination of the satirist. In such a world, the writer, the artist, the prophet does not invent—he merely mirrors what already is, for truth itself has become stranger than fiction.

The ancients themselves understood satire as a weapon of truth. Aristophanes in Athens mocked generals and politicians with his comedies, using laughter as a mirror to reveal corruption and folly. The Romans had Juvenal, whose sharp pen cut through the vanity of emperors and citizens alike. But in those days, satire relied on exaggeration, on the stretching of truth into absurdity. Buchwald laments, however, that in our age, reality itself has grown so grotesque, so twisted, that no exaggeration is needed. The world itself has become the satire.

Consider the story of Watergate in the 1970s. When the scandal first emerged, many thought it was the stuff of wild imagination—bugged offices, secret tapes, the highest officials engaged in lies and cover-ups. It seemed too absurd for truth, yet it was true. What once might have been the script of a biting satire was simply the reality of power laid bare. Here we see Buchwald’s saying embodied: the satirist no longer invents; he records the absurdities of history itself.

And what of the modern age, where news headlines at times read like parody? Dictators proclaim themselves saviors while starving their people; wealthy nations squander resources while millions perish for lack of bread; leaders bicker like children while claiming the mantle of destiny. These things, if written as satire, might once have been dismissed as too fantastical to believe. Yet they are real. The world itself is a satire, and those who chronicle it are but scribes of folly already enacted.

The deeper meaning of Buchwald’s words is this: satire is no longer merely an art form, but a condition of life. When society becomes so absurd that truth is indistinguishable from parody, it reveals a sickness at the core. The people laugh not because things are humorous, but because they are unbearable. Laughter becomes survival, irony becomes the last refuge of sanity. Satire, then, is not invention—it is testimony, the record of a world that has lost its balance.

The lesson for us, O listener, is not only to laugh, but to awaken. When the world itself is satire, it is a sign that folly has gone unchecked, that corruption has grown bold, that wisdom has been cast aside. The absurd must not only amuse us—it must rouse us. For if we treat the madness of the world as mere entertainment, we risk becoming spectators in the collapse of society. But if we see satire as a mirror, reflecting our own failings, then perhaps we may be stirred to change.

Therefore, take this wisdom to heart: do not dismiss the absurdities of the world with laughter alone. Ask what truths they reveal, what dangers they conceal, and what duties they demand. Be not only a recorder of folly, but a builder of sanity. In your words, in your choices, in your life, strive to restore reason, justice, and dignity. For while the world may descend into satire, it is within our power to restore it to truth.

And so let Buchwald’s words be both warning and call: “The world itself is a satire. All you’re doing is recording it.” Let us record, yes, but let us also remember that record-keeping is not enough. We must learn from the absurdities, resist them, and build a society where satire once more becomes art—not reality. For in that labor lies the hope of civilization, and the redemption of the human spirit.