I found myself back in Paris, standing in one of the many antique shops on Rue Saint-Paul, staring at an old Tarot card: The Fool. He stood there in a multicolored jester’s motley, carrying a small sack tied to a stick over his shoulder, a wild feline biting at his calf, and the peculiar image of a crocodile’s snout peeking from behind a cliff in the distance. I wondered whether I’d be a fool myself to pay the price on its tag. My time at Pierrefonds Castle had left me with a craving for antiquing, and stumbling across this specific card felt serendipitous.
The medieval saga—even with its castles, knights, unicorns, and eccentric beasts—would remain bleak to me without a “Licensed Fool.” For some, staying strange is a personality quirk; for the Jester, it was a duty and a survival strategy. This licensed truth-teller was the only person in the King’s inner circle legally allowed to mock the monarch and point to uncomfortable facts without being executed for treason.
In many ways, the Jester acted as a grounding presence for the King. In a room full of yes-men, the Jester held the unique position to highlight royal folly, warn of disaster, or deliver bad news through a joke, an anecdote, an allegory, or satire. In 1340, when the English navy destroyed a French fleet at the Battle of Sluys, Philip VI of France’s jester reportedly told him the English sailors “don’t even have the guts to jump into the water like our brave French.”
Medieval jesters understood something profound about power: rigid hierarchies create dangerous blind spots. The more seriously people take themselves, the more they need someone to laugh at their pretensions. Because he stood outside the strict hierarchy, belonging to no class, the Jester could move between the high-born and the low-born—acting as a translator for the vibe of the kingdom.
(On a side note: Unfortunately, Jesters have largely disappeared from modern halls of power, which—as has often been the case—are flooded with thin-skinned narcissists who construct cults of devotion around themselves and their interests. We are diseased in our mind-bodies as much as we are in our body-politics; in this legalized oligarchy, the institutional space for the wise fool is needed more than ever. For modern leaders, one might prescribe at least two.)
Though the Tarot’s Fool eventually merged with the image of the Court Jester—and they share a common wardrobe today—the card wasn’t a witty court performer in older decks, later known through the Tarot of Marseilles. He was Le Mat (The Madman) or Il Matto (The Beggar), often depicted in ragged clothes, feather-crowned, chased by a dog tearing at his pants, and carrying his worldly possessions in a small bindle.
This original version represented a state of social exile or divine madness. He was the one who had “quit the rules” of society entirely. He wasn’t trying to be witty; he was simply unburdened by the ego-driven world of the other 21 cards. He had no number, or in some traditions, his number was 0—reflecting a societal perception of the “natural fool” as a nobody, an unfortunate misfit without rights or obligations, incapable of dealing with the “real world.”
Yet his “out of bounds” personality was intriguing, perceived through various lenses: a messenger of God, a raving lunatic, or a naïve simpleton, much like Dostoevsky’s The Idiot. However, unlike the literary idiot or an insane vagabond, the Tarot’s Fool was powerful. From the game’s beginnings, he acted as a wild card that belonged to no suit and followed no rules. He existed outside the hierarchy of trumps, free to disrupt the established order of play by substituting for any other card in the deck. He exercised the divine right of a madman: to proclaim himself anyone he wanted.
Years ago, while working on a psychiatric ward, I met plenty of Napoleons and just as many Jesuses. Disturbances of the psyche often lead to permutations of personality.
The Fool card also underwent a transformation, but in the reverse direction: from insanity to astuteness. Over time, the “beggar” and the “jester” merged. The cap and bells became the symbol for the card because they perfectly represented the paradox: someone who looks ridiculous often holds the highest wisdom. By the 18th century, some decks even numbered the Fool as XXII—the highest card, yet still existing outside the system. This was also a time when Tarot cards, alongside their original trick-taking function, began to be utilized for divination. The Fool and the rest of the deck acquired a more esoteric meaning.
Occultists returned to the card’s original number—zero; it symbolized, among other things, a balance of opposites. The archetype of the “Holy Fool” got an upgrade, not only in image but in character. The madman’s detachment turned into a quest for meaning and full engagement with life’s challenges, without taking them—or himself—too seriously.
The Fool’s attitude was redefined. He became a risk-taker, an adventurer with a curious and open mind who takes a leap of faith into the unknown. The card was interpreted as an omen for new beginnings and infinite potential. It wasn’t static. The Fool was on a journey to become a self-actualized, enlightened being; he chooses wonder over safety and ignores conventional caution. He engages with the other cards of the Major Arcana, learning lessons, overcoming shortcomings, and acquiring wisdom. He continues to live on the edge, finding freedom in the margins—but now there is a method to his madness.
The Fool asks great questions: What would you dare if you weren’t imprisoned by fear of failure, social judgment, or the need to appear sensible? Do you trust your inner knowing over external authority? Where in your life have you traded authenticity for safety?
I have had plenty of moments in my life where I’ve been foolish, but I have had many, many more where I haven’t been foolish enough. The jester’s gift is simple: permission to trust what you know in your bones, even when you can’t justify it rationally. Permission to begin before you’re ready. Permission to value wonder over worldly success.
For a moment, the jester from the card materializes in front of me. I think of him in the context of historical reality, where you could easily lose your head without losing your mind. No, he is far from naïve; that would be a professional hazard. His “madness” is a clever disguise. How else could the jester drop a bomb on occasion and live to tell the tale? As long as they think you’re crazy, you’re safe. His power derived from a carefully constructed stratagem: by pretending to lack reason, jesters could speak the most reasonable truths. And for that, you needed nerve.
Some jesters, like Will Somers, Henry VIII’s favorite fool, became legendary for their boldness. No guts, no glory. The role was inherently dangerous and required immense mental dexterity. Even without Noam Chomsky’s Manufacturing Consent, he had to look past the titles of nobility and the court’s propaganda to think for himself. Another of his essential skills was observation—an ability useful not just for external politics, but for internal ones.
A prerequisite to laughing at others is to laugh well at oneself. The bindle on the jester’s back, traditionally interpreted as his possessions, has a deeper meaning: it is his mental baggage, and it must be light. Lightness within form, as the ancient art of Tai Chi demonstrates, has tremendous power. The root of the word “fool” speaks to this; it comes from the Latin follis, meaning “bag of wind” or bellows—that which contains air or breath. The concentrated stream of air coming from the bellows can sound the magic of a cathedral organ; it can also ignite a fire.
But my head had grown heavy: I must have it—I surely must.
To navigate the inner court of my mind is a tricky endeavor, for it houses many deceiving voices. One of them was currently convincing me that I couldn’t live without this card. I looked at the Fool, observed that voice, took a deep breath, and walked out of the store.
I don’t want to own the card. I want to live the Fool’s journey.
Power shifts, fortune spins,
Will pushes, chance begins.
Sometimes you win, sometimes you fall—
But the greatest irony of all:
In every game you’ll contend,
You’re your worst opponent in the end.
🖤
— Vibe & Verse
From page to thread — a story you can wear
