During my graduate school years, I began noticing an intriguing pattern.
Undergraduate philosophy majors often sound dazzling. Their speech is rapid-fire, dense with jargon, ideas bouncing off each other like a spiderweb of associations. Listening to them can feel overwhelming — you might not fully grasp what they’re saying, but the effect is undeniable: brilliance seems to radiate from every word. Logic often takes a back seat; the impression of intelligence is conveyed more by style than substance.
Graduate students, by contrast, are quieter sparks. They still use abstract phrases and references, but they pause, clarify, and check if others are following. Less glamorous, perhaps, but far more comprehensible.
Professors often seem even less dazzling. They speak slowly, define their terms, and add qualifications. Their goal isn’t to impress, but to communicate. To an untrained ear, they might appear ordinary, almost dull — yet this careful clarity is the hallmark of true understanding.
It’s tempting to equate verbosity and complexity with intelligence, but true intellect lies in the ability to make complex ideas simple. Nobel laureate Richard Feynman exemplified this: he could teach physics to a hamster.
Genuine intelligence doesn’t shout; it explains.
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