The Charlatan's Tell
Just because something is complex doesn't make it profound. Making something unnecessarily complex to appear important is the first sign of a charlatan—it reveals that the person knows nothing about the subject. A true expert strips away complexities and presents ideas in a form that's easy to grasp. This is why great teachers are so highly respected: they take complex subjects and distill them into understandable concepts.
Simplicity does not mean dumbing down. Quantum mechanics is quantum mechanics; you cannot reduce it to algebra in the name of simplicity. You can simplify quantum mechanics, but you still expect students to understand the basics of physics and the Heisenberg principle.
A sign of a good professor is their ability to connect familiar concepts to new ideas, elevating your understanding so that you become comfortable with unfamiliar territory. Every piece of effective writing should do the same: strip away unnecessary complexities, connect with familiar concepts, and present new ideas that genuinely advance understanding.
Religion has mastered this approach for centuries, distilling entire moral frameworks into memorable commandments. When someone speaks of doing your duty without worrying about the results, you recognize the wisdom of the Bhagavad Gita. "Now I am become death"—Oppenheimer's famous line, though an imperfect translation—also draws from the same source.
Proverbs follow this same principle of elegant simplicity. "Smooth seas do not make skillful sailors." "Only a fool tests the depth of water with both feet." "Fall seven times, stand up eight." These sayings have endured for centuries precisely because they convey profound truths without making us feel inadequate. Their power lies in accessibility—wisdom that can pass from generation to generation because it's memorable and clear.
In ancient India, the Vedas survived through oral transmission called "smriti." The shlokas were crafted with deliberate rhythm and musicality. They weren't just easy to understand for those who knew the language; they were designed to be remembered. Form served function.
We often mistake incomprehensibility for profundity. Complex jargon and elaborate terminology make us overestimate a subject's importance, assuming it must be beyond our intellectual reach. Some writers hide behind jargon because explaining concepts clearly would require deeper understanding of the topic itself. As readers, we should ruthlessly discard such writing—we're unlikely to remember anything meaningful from it.
However, complexity does serve essential purposes. In medical studies, describing autoimmune diseases as simply "the body attacking itself" would be incomplete and dangerously misleading. Medical professionals need to understand different immune responses, trigger mechanisms, and therapeutic targets because treatment varies for each individual. The complexity exists to serve precision, not to impress.
Areas requiring precision demand acknowledgment of inherent complexity. Pilots cannot afford to say "looks good to me" before takeoff—they must validate each parameter and check every component before declaring "all clear." Complexity becomes necessary when precision is at stake, though in most cases, it isn't required.
Ideas explained clearly persist longer in memory, as demonstrated by religious texts, proverbs, and fables. If you want your message remembered, make it clear and simple without sacrificing essential complexity. The mark of a good essay is that it makes one logical point resonate by expressing it in various illuminating ways.
The purpose of writing is to achieve clarity. True clarity emerges only when you understand concepts without relying on jargon. Technical language should be used only to compress large concepts into efficient terms; everything else should be abandoned ruthlessly.
In the end, the test is simple: does the complexity serve the reader's understanding, or does it serve the writer's ego? Choose clarity.