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DID WIT TEACH US TO THINK?

BY SHALEEKA JAYALATH June 16, 2026

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There was a time when wit was more than a form of entertainment. It was regarded as evidence of intelligence, education and social accomplishment. In late seventeenth-century England, during the Restoration period, wit was admired as a sign of a quick mind capable of perceiving connections, contradictions and subtleties that escaped ordinary observation. A witty remark was not merely amusing; it demonstrated intellectual agility. And the prestige of wit endured well into the Regency period. Georgette Heyer's Regency heroines, just like Jane Austen's Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice, were valued as much for their verbal dexterity as for their beauty. Indeed, in the Heyer universe, it was understood that a beautiful woman may catch a gentleman's eye, but a witty woman captured his mind. However today, language appears to be moving in a different direction. Public discourse increasingly favours simplicity, immediacy and accessibility. We are encouraged to explain complex ideas in ever simpler terms, reducing multi-faceted concepts to "words of one syllable".

Clarity is undoubtedly important, but one wonders whether something valuable has been lost in the process. As language becomes more direct, are we also losing some of the habits of thought that wit once cultivated? Consider the phrase "clearly misunderstood". Most people use it without a second thought. Yet it contains a contradiction. If something is misunderstood, how can it be clear? The phrase works because we instinctively grasp the tension between the two words. It is an example of an oxymoron: the combination of apparently contradictory terms that together create a deeper meaning. We encounter oxymorons constantly in everyday speech. "Deafening silence", "open secret", "bittersweet" and "awfully good" all rely on the same principle. The contradiction forces the mind to pause and reconcile opposing ideas.

Puns operate differently but achieve a similar effect. They depend on words with multiple meanings or similar sounds, requiring the listener to recognise two interpretations simultaneously. Critics have long dismissed puns as the lowest form of humour, yet their survival across centuries suggests otherwise. To appreciate a pun, one must think beyond the obvious meaning of words. The listener is invited to explore alternative possibilities rather than accept the first interpretation presented.

The significance of such linguistic devices extends beyond amusement. They encourage a form of mental flexibility that modern educators would readily recognise. A pun requires us to hold multiple meanings in mind at the same time. An oxymoron challenges us to reconcile apparent contradictions. Both demand attention, interpretation and imagination. In psychological terms, they cultivate the ability to perceive unexpected relationships between ideas, a quality closely associated with creativity.

This appreciation of verbal ingenuity was not confined to England. Across Asia and Africa, well into the twentieth century, riddles, proverbs and verbal puzzles formed an important part of everyday communication. While colonial influence undoubtedly encouraged mastery of the English language in many societies, the use of riddles and indirect forms of expression long predated European contact. Indeed, some of the world's oldest storytelling traditions are built upon metaphor, paradox and ambiguity. In many cultures, wisdom was not transmitted through direct instruction. Instead, it was conveyed through questions, stories and riddles that required interpretation. A straightforward answer was often considered less valuable than a response that encouraged reflection. The purpose was not merely to communicate information but to stimulate discussion and reveal multiple perspectives. The listener was expected to think, infer and participate.

Consider the following riddle. Two people were standing on a bridge. One was the father of the other's son. What was the relationship between the two? Many listeners immediately begin searching for a complicated explanation. Yet the answer is surprisingly simple: they were husband and wife. The riddle is valuable not because the answer is difficult, but because it reveals how readily we impose assumptions upon incomplete information. Before arriving at the solution, the mind must question its own interpretation. In that sense, the riddle functions as an exercise in critical thinking. Its purpose is not merely to entertain but to teach us how to examine our assumptions and consider alternatives.

This raises an intriguing question. When modern educators encourage children to ask "why?" in order to develop critical thinking, what exactly are they trying to achieve? The goal is surely to cultivate curiosity, analysis and intellectual independence. Yet these are many of the same qualities traditionally nurtured through riddles, puns, proverbs and other forms of verbal play. Earlier generations may not have spoken of "critical thinking skills" or "innovation", but they possessed linguistic traditions that exercised similar mental faculties.

One might even argue that modern education has travelled in a curious circle. In the pursuit of universal understanding, we simplified language, reduced ambiguity and discouraged forms of expression that required interpretation. We prized communication that could be understood instantly and unambiguously. Yet having done so, we now worry that students lack creativity, that employees struggle to think outside established frameworks, and that innovation is in short supply. Educational programmes are designed to foster critical thinking, lateral thinking and problem-solving abilities. Employers lament the absence of initiative and imagination. Could it be that previous generations developed some of these capacities through the very linguistic practices we have neglected?

This is not an argument against clarity. There are many situations in which direct communication is essential. Scientific instructions, legal documents and safety warnings should not be transformed into riddles. Yet a language stripped entirely of ambiguity, metaphor and verbal playfulness risks becoming little more than a vehicle for transmitting information. Human thought is rarely so simple. Life is full of contradictions, competing interpretations and unresolved questions.

Wit occupies the space between certainty and possibility. It invites us to examine words more carefully and to recognise that meaning is often layered rather than singular. A good pun reveals hidden connections. A good oxymoron reminds us that apparent opposites may coexist. A good riddle demonstrates that the journey towards an answer can be more valuable than the answer itself. Perhaps this is why wit has endured across cultures and centuries. It is not merely a source of amusement. It is a way of training the mind to look beyond the obvious. Long before educators spoke of critical thinking, creativity and innovation, language itself may have been teaching us how to think.