Let­ter to Lucian of Samosa­ta opens with an image of that fabled land where souls of laugh­ter dwell undis­turbed, where you, Lucian, might now be delight­ing in an end­less ban­quet of irony, jest, and philo­soph­i­cal ban­ter. One imag­ines Heine toss­ing wit­ty remarks like grapes across the table, while Pla­to, no longer forced to defend his forms, smiles indul­gent­ly at your mock­ery of solemn pre­tenders. In that imag­ined island of light, you sit beside Voltaire and Rabelais, not as rivals, but as fel­low crafts­men of laughter’s truth. The bur­dens of flesh and empire long dis­card­ed, there is only the sharp clar­i­ty of thought and the joy of know­ing how lit­tle all men know. Here, the fol­ly of kings and the solem­ni­ty of sages are remem­bered only to be laughed at again, fresh­ly and eter­nal­ly. The charm of your irony was not its cru­el­ty but its courage—a mir­ror offered, not a sword drawn.

Yet here on earth, the tone has soured, and your voice is missed. We drown in half-truths wrapped in jar­gon, ide­olo­gies parad­ed like ancient mys­ter­ies, and schol­ars who fear to laugh. Your old foes, the puffed philoso­phers and fake prophets, have mul­ti­plied in num­ber, speak­ing now not in togas but in head­lines and hash­tags. They sell inspi­ra­tion in bot­tles, man­i­festos in reels, and call it rev­e­la­tion. A Lucian among them would not rage; he would chuck­le, lift­ing the veil with ease, show­ing the gods to be man­nequins draped in bor­rowed divin­i­ty. You taught that belief with­out laugh­ter is a trap, and that even truth must be ques­tioned, gen­tly, with wit. The same blind spots you exposed in tem­ple courts now appear in news­rooms and self-help sem­i­nars, their new robes no bet­ter tai­lored than the old.

You would have mar­veled at the new oracles—men and women dis­pens­ing wis­dom in thir­ty-sec­ond bursts, promis­ing eter­nal joy in exchange for fol­low­ers. Even in ancient mar­kets, truth had a price, but now it is sold as fast fash­ion. The auc­tion of philoso­phers you once imag­ined is now livestreamed dai­ly, each voice vying for atten­tion, not clar­i­ty. These sages speak not of the soul, but of brand align­ment, not of the cos­mos, but of per­son­al growth algo­rithms. To sum­mon your laugh­ter here would be a relief; not cru­el, not supe­ri­or, but free­ing. We have for­got­ten that irony pro­tects truth bet­ter than armor, and your quill, dipped in humor, did more than sword or ser­mon ever could.

Per­haps, Lucian, your old friend Rabelais has at last seen the Coq­ci­grues arrive—beings of absur­di­ty whose feath­ers are stitched from over­reg­u­la­tion, mis­placed zeal, and bureau­crat­ic fog. When Pan­ta­gru­el walked among us, giants were known by the size of their ques­tions. Now, the land is ruled by pyg­mies of pur­pose, hand­ing out rules instead of joy. A car­ni­val of reform­ers shouts over one anoth­er, claim­ing virtue while tram­pling delight. Health gurus con­demn feast­ing, reform­ers ban laugh­ter, and com­mit­tees meet to out­law joy as unpro­duc­tive. The bat­tle now is not over truth, but tone. One must not jest. One must not offend. One must walk straight through a mine­field of good inten­tions laid by the earnest and unthink­ing.

Would you not laugh? Or weep—if tears had place in your land of laugh­ter? The world you once par­o­died now par­o­dies itself, and yet dares not admit the joke. In your dia­logues, the gods them­selves blushed at your mock­ery, know­ing you meant not mal­ice, but med­i­cine. You nev­er scorned belief—only pre­ten­sion. You did not reject mean­ing, only those who sold it. In your writ­ing, wis­dom walked in san­dals and smiled with crooked teeth. Today, truth wears pol­ished shoes and frowns in every pho­to­graph. Your return, even as a voice on the wind, would be more heal­ing than any dog­ma dis­pensed on a morn­ing talk show.

Still, some learn. In the qui­et cor­ners of study, your words sur­vive, not dusty but elec­tric. A read­er stum­bles upon your dia­logue and feels the jolt—this is not mock­ery for mockery’s sake, but for freedom’s. It is not cyn­i­cism, but clar­i­ty. It is not denial of virtue, but a defense against its false pre­tense. We have enough ser­mons; what we lack is per­spec­tive. And humor, Lucian, is per­spec­tive made gen­tle.

Per­haps that is your true gift—not in mak­ing fools of oth­ers, but in help­ing us see the fool with­in our­selves with­out despair. To laugh and then to think. To doubt and still to love. The wise who fear laugh­ter are nev­er wise for long. So let your shade remain where mirth still lives, sur­round­ed by those who knew that joy and skep­ti­cism are not ene­mies but allies. If the world deserves sav­ing, it is not by grave voic­es, but by kind ones who dare to smile.