You’ll often hear what seem to be contradictions about writing. For example, Jean de La Bruyère (1645–1696), a 17th‑century French moralist and satirist, quipped: “It is the glory and merit of some people to write well, and of others not to write at all.” The line is a refined insult: some people genuinely honor themselves by writing finely, while others would be more admired if they never committed a sentence to print. The irony is that he makes this point in a perfectly polished sentence, using exemplary prose to suggest that most people should never presume to emulate it.
A little later, William Hazlitt (1788–1830), the 19th‑century English essayist and critic, came at the problem from the angle of practice rather than restraint. He remarked: “The more a person writes, the more he can write.” That’s the working writer’s creed: fluency, confidence, and even ideas increase with use. You learn to write by writing—awkwardly at first, then more capably as habit does its work. Where La Bruyère stands at the gate with a raised eyebrow, Hazlitt is already inside the shop, sleeves rolled up, insisting that craft is not a miracle but a muscle.
The statements are fully reconcilable once you see that they address different stages. La Bruyère is concerned with the prior question: ought you to write at all? If you lack any sense of proportion, language, or self‑criticism, your highest “merit” may indeed be abstention. But if you have even the beginnings of judgment—and are willing to work—Hazlitt’s counsel applies: only by writing much can you hope, eventually, to write well. Together they amount to a wry syllabus: first acquire the humility to suspect you might not deserve to be read; then, if you still dare to try, earn that reward by writing until you do.