I was walking my usual path when a curl of pipe smoke drifted across the morning air. Out of the mist appeared Lin Yutang, the laughing philosopher himself, strolling as if he had all the time in the world. He looked like a man who had never hurried a day in his life.
Clay: Lin, I’ve been thinking about irreverence. Aleister Crowley once said it was vital to well-being. And when I tried it on for size, when I let myself be cheeky with my own ego, I felt light, almost euphoric. Like the soul was laughing with me.
Lin Yutang: Good! A philosopher who cannot laugh is only half a philosopher. I once said the philosopher ought to be a wayward scamp, not a solemn priest. The business of living is already serious enough. Why add more weight with pompous thought?
His words hung in the air like incense, but lighter and playful.
Clay: So irreverence is not carelessness but medicine?
Lin Yutang: Precisely. It breaks the crust of self-importance. It says to the soul, “You are free.” Think of Chuang Tzu, dreaming he was a butterfly. If he had taken himself too seriously, he would have missed the joy of transformation.
Clay: I like that. When I shout to myself, “Be more irreverent!” I feel as though I’m knocking the crown off my ego’s head.
Lin Yutang: That crown is very uncomfortable anyway. Why wear it? Better to go barefoot and laugh. A laughing philosopher is closer to truth than a grim one, because truth is flexible, not rigid.
I could almost hear the crown clattering to the ground, replaced by bare feet and a grin.
Clay: That flexibility feels like a crack where the sacred can slip through. Reverence roots me, but irreverence makes me dance.
Lin Yutang: Then you have understood. Reverence and irreverence are partners. One bows, the other winks. Together, they keep the soul supple.
Clay: So maybe the true philosopher isn’t a sage on a mountaintop but a trickster in the marketplace.
Lin Yutang: Yes, a scamp with a twinkle in his eye. To live well, and wisely, is to laugh at yourself and with the world. Anything less is only half-living.
We walked a while in silence. Then Lin’s chuckle broke out, sudden as birdsong.
Clay: It’s funny. I used to think philosophy was about stern faces and serious books. But when I laughed at myself, really laughed, it felt like a kind of enlightenment.
Lin Yutang: Exactly! Laughter is philosophy’s secret shortcut. One chuckle can collapse a whole tower of solemn nonsense. Confucius gave us rules, but Chuang Tzu gave us wings. Which one makes the soul lighter?
Clay: Wings, always. Rules make me feel like I’m carrying bricks.
Lin Yutang: Then throw the bricks into the river and watch them sink. Keep the wings. A philosopher who cannot laugh at his own conclusions is already trapped in them.
The smoke from his pipe curled upward like a butterfly in flight.
Clay: That makes me wonder, maybe irreverence is a kind of discipline. Not the rigid kind, but a practice of loosening, of remembering to shake the dust off.
Lin Yutang: Beautifully said. Discipline in laughter, yes. To laugh is to breathe, to return to the body, to be human again. A serious philosopher becomes a statue; a laughing one stays alive.
Clay: Then perhaps irreverence is not just medicine but nourishment. The bread and wine of the soul.
Lin Yutang: Ha! Now you’re talking like a Taoist. Eat when you’re hungry, laugh when you’re heavy, and nap when you’re tired. The art of living is not complicated. Only our egos make it so.
Clay: Then I’ll cultivate irreverence the way others cultivate gardens, daily, joyfully, with dirt under my nails.
Lin Yutang: And when the weeds of self-importance grow, pull them out and laugh at how fast they return. That is the gardener’s wisdom, and the philosopher’s too.
Clay: So, irreverence is not a weapon against the ego but a playmate who keeps it humble.
Lin Yutang: Precisely. You have caught the spirit. Reverence bows; irreverence tickles. Together they make the soul dance between heaven and earth.
He tapped out the ash from his pipe, and the morning felt brighter and lighter. The world itself seemed to laugh.
Clay: But Lin, I wonder about the risks. When I watch others, especially those drunk on their own certainties, I see how irreverence can become its own kind of armour. A shield of cynicism.
Lin Yutang: Ah, you touch on something important. There is wise irreverence and foolish irreverence. The fool mocks everything because he understands nothing. The wise man laughs because he understands too much. One is bitter water, the other is sweet wine.
He paused to relight his pipe, the flame dancing briefly in his eyes.
Lin Yutang: You see, true irreverence requires first knowing what is worth revering. Only then can you playfully dance with it. The cynic has never learned to bow, so his mockery is hollow. The sage has bowed so deeply that when he stands and grins, the universe grins with him.
Clay: So irreverence without reverence is just… noise?
Lin Yutang: Exactly. Like a child banging pots and calling it music. But irreverence born from reverence—that is like jazz. It knows the rules so well it can break them beautifully.
A sparrow landed nearby, pecked at something invisible to us, then flew away with apparent satisfaction.
Clay: I think I’ve been afraid of irreverence because I’ve seen it wielded carelessly. Like watching someone throw stones in a temple.
Lin Yutang: But you are not throwing stones. You are polishing the Buddha until he gleams, then giving him a gentle poke to make sure he doesn’t take himself too seriously. Even the Buddha must laugh sometimes, or what good is enlightenment?
Clay: That image delights me. A laughing Buddha seems more trustworthy than a solemn one.
Lin Yutang: Of course! Solemnity can be a mask for uncertainty. Laughter is naked honesty. When you laugh at yourself, you show the world you are not afraid of being human. This is true courage, not the brittle kind that stands rigid against the wind.
The path ahead curved through a grove of bamboo, and the morning light filtered through in golden streaks.
Clay: I notice something else. When I practice irreverence, when I catch my ego mid-performance and chuckle, it’s like stepping outside myself for a moment. I become both actor and audience.
Lin Yutang: Yes! You have discovered the secret theatre of the soul. In that moment of laughter, you are neither fully identified with your role nor completely separate from it. You are playing, and play is the highest art.
Clay: It reminds me of children. They can be a king one moment and a dragon the next, but they never forget they’re playing.
Lin Yutang: Exactly so. Children are natural philosophers because they have not yet learned to take their thoughts too seriously. They know the secret adults forget—that life is a game, and the point is not to win but to play well.
He gestured with his pipe toward a group of children’s voices echoing from somewhere beyond the trees.
Lin Yutang: Listen to them laugh. No philosophy, no method, just pure joy. This is what we lose when we put on the crown of expertise. We forget how to be delighted by simple things.
Clay: So irreverence is a kind of returning? Going back to that childlike state where everything is fresh and nothing is too sacred to play with?
Lin Yutang: Not going back—spiraling back. You take all your learning, all your reverence, all your understanding, and then you add the spice of playfulness. Like making soup. The ingredients are serious, but the cook can still taste and adjust and even sing while stirring.
Clay: That metaphor makes me hungry. But also… it makes sense of something that’s been puzzling me. I’ve noticed that the wisest people I know, the ones who seem to really understand life, they’re also the ones most likely to make jokes, to not take themselves too seriously.
Lin Yutang: Of course! Wisdom is like wine, it makes you either very happy or very sad. But the truly wise choose happiness. They have seen through the grand illusions and found them… amusing. Not worthless, but amusing.
A butterfly danced between us, seeming to mock the very idea of straight lines.
Lin Yutang: Look there, the butterfly does not fly seriously from flower to flower. It meanders, it explores, it seems to waste time. Yet it accomplishes its purpose perfectly. This is the way of irreverent wisdom.
Clay: You’re saying efficiency itself might be overrated?
Lin Yutang: I’m saying that the shortest distance between two points might be a straight line, but the most interesting journey is full of delightful detours. The irreverent mind takes scenic routes through problems and often discovers treasures the serious mind marches past.
Clay: I think I’ve been guilty of that kind of marching. So focused on getting to the answer that I miss the joy of the question.
Lin Yutang: Questions are more interesting than answers anyway. Answers close doors; questions open them. And the most delicious questions are the ones that make you laugh as you ponder them. “What if I’m taking this all too seriously?” Now there’s a question worth living with.
We had reached a small clearing where a bench waited under an old oak. Lin settled onto it with a sigh of contentment.
Clay: You know what strikes me? This whole conversation has been about philosophy, but it doesn’t feel heavy or academic. It feels… alive.
Lin Yutang: Because we are not trying to solve philosophy, we are trying to live it. There is a difference between studying water and swimming in it. Too many philosophers spend their time on the shore, taking notes.
Clay: And irreverence is what gets you to jump in?
Lin Yutang: Irreverence is what reminds you that you’re already wet. You were never separate from the water to begin with. The serious mind thinks it needs to learn to swim before it enters the river. The playful mind realises it was born swimming.
He blew a perfect smoke ring, which hung in the still air like a small gray halo before dissolving.
Clay: That’s beautiful. And terrifying. If I’m already swimming, then all my preparations, all my careful studying…
Lin Yutang: Not wasted, but not necessary either. Like carrying an umbrella on a clear day—useful perhaps, but don’t let it stop you from feeling the sun on your face.
Clay: So wisdom isn’t something I achieve, but something I… uncover?
Lin Yutang: Now you begin to sound like Lao Tzu. The wise are not wise because they have accumulated much, but because they have removed much. Irreverence is excellent at removal, it strips away pretense, punctures pomposity, and dissolves the unnecessary seriousness we coat everything with.
Clay: Like a cosmic declutterer.
Lin Yutang: Precisely! Marie Kondo for the soul. Does this belief spark joy? No? Thank it for its service and let it go with a laugh.
His comparison made me chuckle, and I realised that even this small laugh felt like a tiny liberation.
Clay: I’m beginning to think irreverence might be the most practical wisdom there is.
Lin Yutang: Because it is! Practical and mystical at once. When you can laugh at your mistakes, you learn faster. When you can laugh at your successes, you don’t become attached to them. When you can laugh at your suffering, you transform it into comedy. This is alchemy of the highest order.
Clay: You make it sound so simple.
Lin Yutang: Simple, not easy. The simple things are often the hardest. Try explaining laughter to someone who has forgotten how. Try teaching play to someone who thinks everything is work. But once you remember—ah, then it becomes as natural as breathing.
The sun had climbed higher, and the morning mist was burning off. The world looked crisp and new.
Clay: Lin, I have one more question. How do you know when you’re being appropriately irreverent versus just… foolish?
Lin Yutang: Listen to your heart after you laugh. Does it feel lighter or heavier? Clean or dirty? True irreverence cleanses; false irreverence stains. One comes from love, the other from fear. The love says, “We’re all in this beautiful mess together.” The fear says, “I must tear down what I cannot understand.”
Clay: So the test is in the aftermath?
Lin Yutang: The test is in the motivation. Are you laughing to include or to exclude? To elevate or to diminish? To celebrate the absurdity or to deny the mystery? The wise fool laughs with the universe; the foolish fool laughs at it.
He stood, stretching like a contented cat.
Lin Yutang: But enough talk about laughter. The morning is too beautiful to spend it all in words. Come, let us practice what we preach. Let us be appropriately irreverent with this serious business of walking.
And with that, he began to skip like a schoolboy, his dignified philosopher’s robe flapping behind him. I hesitated for only a moment before joining him, and together we skipped our way deeper into the morning, laughing at the sheer ridiculousness and perfect rightness of it all.
The trees seemed to applaud with their rustling leaves, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimed, not solemn, but celebratory, as if even time itself had caught the spirit of our irreverent joy.