Into the Words: Bertrand Russell
Sondheim’s musicals as a map of moral and intellectual inquiry
In 1951, philosopher Bertrand Russell (1872–1970) proposed ten principles for intellectual humility and open discourse in his essay “The Best Answer to Fanaticism: Liberalism.” Now colloquially known as his ten commandments, these principles emerged in the shadow of World War II and amid the early tensions of the Cold War. Russell offered them as a remedy for dogmatism—a roadmap for critical thinking designed to resist both totalitarian impulses and intellectual complacency.
While Russell’s commandments were aimed at the realm of public discourse, they also offer a striking lens through which to view the moral complexity, psychological nuance, and philosophical curiosity that define the work of Stephen Sondheim.
So, what are these so-called ten commandments? Have a read of them first, before we turn our attention to Sondheim:
1. Do not feel absolutely certain of anything.
2. Do not think it worthwhile to proceed by concealing evidence, for the evidence is sure to come to light.
3. Never try to discourage thinking, for you are sure to succeed.
4. When you meet with opposition, even if it should be from your husband or your children, endeavour to overcome it by argument and not by authority, for a victory dependent upon authority is unreal and illusory.
5. Have no respect for the authority of others, for there are always contrary authorities to be found.
6. Do not use power to suppress opinions you think pernicious, for if you do the opinions will suppress you.
7. Do not fear to be eccentric in opinion, for every opinion now accepted was once eccentric.
8. Find more pleasure in intelligent dissent than in passive agreement, for, if you value intelligence as you should, the former implies a deeper agreement than the latter.
9. Be scrupulously truthful, even if the truth is inconvenient, for it is more inconvenient when you try to conceal it.
10. Do not feel envious of the happiness of those who live in a fool’s paradise, for only a fool will think that it is happiness.
There’s a lot of wisdom in those words, isn’t there?
What follows is a brief look at each of Russell’s commandments through the lens of Sondheim’s work. It’s fascinating to consider the various ways in which Sondheim and his collaborators give dramatic shape to the philosophical tensions Russell identifies—often complicating them, occasionally affirming them, but always engaging them with curiosity and depth.
1. Do not feel absolutely certain of anything.
In Assassins, Sondheim and Weidman show us again and again that absolute certainty is not just intellectually suspect, but potentially devastating. We meet assassin after assassin absolutely convinced of the righteousness of their actions: John Wilkes Booth believes he’s a heroic defender of the Confederate cause; Charles Guiteau sees himself as a divine instrument; Leon Czolgosz is certain of his anarchist mission to strike against perceived oppression.
By humanizing these figures and dramatizing the psychology behind their convictions, the show exposes the peril of moral and ideological rigidity. Certainty, here, is not a sign of strength but a refusal to question, a mask for pain and grievance. Assassins becomes a chilling embodiment of Russell’s first principle, showing how unexamined conviction can lead not to clarity, but to catastrophe.
2. Do not think it worthwhile to proceed by concealing evidence, for the evidence is sure to come to light.
Merrily We Roll Along is a musical about revelation—emotional, personal, and structural. Its backward chronology peels away layers of self-deception, exposing the compromises and concealed motives that gradually corrode Franklin Shepard’s life.
At each earlier moment, we see him bury something: his idealism, his friendships, his sense of self. These suppressions may seem small in isolation, but together they build a false narrative—one that eventually collapses under its own weight. Sondheim and Furth’s structure makes concealment impossible: the truth can’t stay buried when the story insists on digging backward.
In showing how time reveals what characters would rather forget, the show affirms Russell’s warning. The truth will surface, whether we’re ready for it or not.
3. Never try to discourage thinking, for you are sure to succeed.
Follies is, in many ways, a study in what happens when thinking is deferred—when the past is romanticized instead of reckoned with. Sondheim and Goldman’s conceit of confronting younger selves turns memory into a form of intellectual engagement. Sally, Phyllis, Ben, and Buddy aren’t just reminiscing; they’re analyzing, excavating, questioning.
Their pastiche numbers function as acts of self-interrogation, not nostalgia. And as the illusions crack, the danger of discouraging thought becomes clear. These characters didn’t merely age but stagnated, trapped by stories they never challenged. Follies dramatizes Russell’s warning: suppress thought, and you don’t preserve happiness—you calcify regret.
4. When you meet with opposition, even if it should be from your husband or your children, endeavour to overcome it by argument and not by authority, for a victory dependent upon authority is unreal and illusory.
In Sunday in the Park with George, George confronts resistance not through domination, but through persuasion. In “Beautiful,” George doesn’t reject his mother’s skepticism. Instead, he responds with careful, loving argument, inviting her to see the world as he sees it. Their exchange becomes a model of how reasoned discourse can bridge emotional distance.
This isn’t about changing someone’s mind through force or status; it’s about offering a new lens, one patient explanation at a time. Russell’s fourth principle lives in the scene’s restraint: victory isn’t won through power, but through clarity, coupled with a belief in the other’s capacity to understand.
Have a read of our essay about “Beautiful” to explore this number in more depth.
5. Have no respect for the authority of others, for there are always contrary authorities to be found.
Sweeney Todd is a sustained assault on institutional authority, and a reminder that power does not equal legitimacy. Sondheim and Wheeler show us a world in which the legal system, the asylum, the church, and even the market are mechanisms of cruelty and control. Judge Turpin embodies the worst of it: a man who cloaks abuse in robes of justice.
But Sweeney’s rebellion isn’t framed as heroic. It’s the tragic outcome of a world where deference to power has enabled unchecked violence. His “Epiphany” rejects not just one authority, but the very idea that authority deserves respect by default. In Sweeney Todd, Russell’s principle becomes a moral imperative: to question what others accept—before it’s too late.
6. Do not use power to suppress opinions you think pernicious, for if you do the opinions will suppress you.
Into the Woods represents one of Sondheim’s most incisive explorations of the dangers of silencing dissenting voices. The act of killing the Narrator—a moment of collective decision by the characters—seems at first like a bold reclaiming of agency. But it quickly backfires. Without a guiding voice to impose structure or coherence, the story collapses into chaos. The characters, now unmoored, begin to fracture, blame one another, and spiral into confusion and fear.
This moment serves as something of a parable about what happens when a community suppresses a voice it deems inconvenient. The Narrator may have been controlling, even manipulative, but he also represented a framework for reckoning with conflicting perspectives. In eliminating him, the characters attempt to rid themselves of an uncomfortable presence—but instead, they rid themselves of the possibility of negotiation, context, and shared understanding.
More broadly, the second act of Into the Woods demonstrates how silencing—or simply ignoring—painful truths allows them to resurface in more destructive forms. The Baker tries to suppress his grief, the Witch attempts to control others through fear, and Jack refuses to hear anything that challenges his desire for revenge. In each case, attempts to shut down opposing voices lead not to resolution, but to greater harm.
Russell’s commandment warns us that using power to silence disagreement may feel like a solution, but it only deepens the problem. Into the Woods dramatizes this truth with devastating clarity: when we silence the stories we don’t want to hear, we don’t destroy them—we lose the ability to shape them.
7. Do not fear to be eccentric in opinion, for every opinion now accepted was once eccentric.
Pacific Overtures is in some ways Sondheim’s most radical work. In its subject matter, theatrical form, and political stance, the musical embraces what was once considered eccentric: a Broadway show told from the Japanese point of view, using Kabuki-inspired staging, about the West’s forced opening of Japan.
Sondheim and Weidman reject the comfort of familiar narratives. They insist on telling history from a different angle, asking Western audiences to reckon with their own imperial legacy. The choice to center Japanese voices and aesthetics wasn’t just stylistic—it was philosophical. It was a statement that truth sometimes requires strangeness.
By refusing to dilute its vision, Pacific Overtures models a kind of artistic bravery: the belief that what seems eccentric today may one day reshape how we understand the world.
8. Find more pleasure in intelligent dissent than in passive agreement, for, if you value intelligence as you should, the former implies a deeper agreement than the latter.
Road Show chronicles the real-life story of the Mizner brothers, presenting dissent not as a negative force, but as a generative, almost joyful form of personal exploration. The brothers clash constantly—over ambition, over values, over how to live—but their arguments are never just about conflict. They’re expressions of attention, recognition, and investment.
Sondheim and Weidman let us feel the joy and energy of their friction: one brother dreaming in architecture, the other in quick deals and quicker exits. Even when they frustrate each other, they remain tethered by a shared belief in possibility. Their dissent, however chaotic, speaks to a deeper, more honest alignment than easy harmony ever could.
9. Be scrupulously truthful, even if the truth is inconvenient, for it is more inconvenient when you try to conceal it.
Passion is an unflinching study in emotional honesty. Fosca’s love is overwhelming, relentless—and completely sincere. She hides nothing: not her illness, her pain, nor the totality of her devotion. Her rawness makes others uncomfortable, but it also forces them to confront the guarded, curated selves they present to the world.
In contrast, Giorgio’s affair with Clara offers surface-level comfort but little truth. What Passion dares to show is that truth—especially emotional truth—is rarely tidy or polite. “Love isn’t so convenient. / Love isn’t something scheduled in advance.” Sondheim and Lapine argue that concealment corrodes, while authenticity, however difficult, can transform. To be scrupulously truthful may cost us comfort, but it is the only way through to something real.
10. Do not feel envious of the happiness of those who live in a fool’s paradise, for only a fool will think that it is happiness.
Anyone Can Whistle skewers the illusion of easy happiness. In the corrupt town of Cora Hoover Hooper, fake miracles and shallow conformity are celebrated as signs of civic virtue. But Sondheim and Laurents reveal this supposed paradise to be a hollow performance—a society propped up by lies, delusion, and fear of the unfamiliar.
Nurse Fay Apple cuts through the illusion. Her refusal to play along is framed not as cynicism, but as clarity. The show’s joy lies not in endorsing the fool’s paradise, but in escaping it. In Anyone Can Whistle, Russell’s warning becomes a rallying cry: don’t envy what’s false—question it, resist it, and imagine something better.
Such an important essay. If only everyone could read it.
Thank you. ♥️