You have to promote yourself; you have to have this smile on your

The words of Craig Roberts carry with them both humor and truth: “You have to promote yourself; you have to have this smile on your face all the time and be this nice guy—which I am!” Beneath the lighthearted tone lies an ancient struggle: the balance between authenticity and the demands of public life. To promote oneself is not merely to boast, but to survive in a world where visibility often determines opportunity. Yet with this comes the burden of performance—the expectation to always wear the smile, to always present the agreeable mask, regardless of the storms within.

The meaning of this quote is deeply tied to the nature of ambition. In every generation, those who aspire to greatness—whether in art, politics, or enterprise—must learn the art of self-promotion. The philosopher may have wisdom, the singer may have song, the soldier may have valor; but unless they can be seen, unless they can be heard, their gifts remain hidden in shadow. Roberts names this truth plainly: that to rise, one must not only labor in craft, but also project an image, polish a presence, cultivate a smile that assures the world of one’s worth.

The smile he mentions is more than an expression of joy; it is a shield, a symbol, a currency. In the courts of kings, courtiers were expected to wear a serene face, even when plotting or fearing within. In the marketplaces of old, merchants greeted every buyer with a grin, for the smile softened suspicion and opened the way to trade. Roberts’ observation belongs to this ancient tradition: the smile is the passport by which one travels through the harsh terrain of judgment and competition.

History itself confirms this lesson. Consider the tale of Benjamin Franklin, who, though born the son of a humble candle-maker, rose to become one of the architects of a nation. He knew the art of self-promotion, printing witty essays under false names, cultivating a reputation for charm and reason, always presenting himself with a genial smile that made allies of strangers. Without this ability to shape how others perceived him, his genius alone may have remained overlooked. Like Roberts, Franklin knew that being seen as a “nice guy” could open doors that raw intellect alone could not.

Yet there is a caution here. To always wear the smile can be wearying, even dangerous, if it becomes only a mask with no truth behind it. Many have lost themselves in the endless task of performance, forgetting who they are beneath the costume of kindness. Roberts tempers this with humor: “which I am!”—reminding us that the nice guy must not be an act, but a reflection of genuine character. The lesson is not to wear false masks, but to bring forth the best of oneself into the light, to embody what the world most needs without abandoning the truth of the soul.

The lesson for us, then, is this: in the journey of life, you must learn both substance and image. Develop your craft with diligence, but also learn to promote it with confidence. Carry your gifts into the world with humility, but let the world see them through your openness, your kindness, your smile. Let your face radiate sincerity, not mere performance, so that when people encounter you, they find not only a mask but a soul.

Therefore, let us practice this wisdom. Do not shrink from speaking of your achievements; for silence can bury talent. Do not fear to smile, for warmth opens hearts where pride closes them. But above all, let the smile come from truth, the promotion from real labor, the nice guy from genuine character. In this way, you will not only succeed in the eyes of others but will stand secure in your own.

Thus Craig Roberts’ playful words become a teaching of endurance: that the world requires us to shine outwardly as well as inwardly, to balance the mask and the heart. To promote yourself is necessary, to smile is wise, and to be a nice guy—in truth and not in pretense—is the highest triumph of all.