We are all equally wise in the beginning. Those we call wise are those who remember the
most of what we all knew in the beginning.
Those we call fools are those who forget, but choose to believe it doesn’t
matter because we have wise men who tell us all we need to know.
Those who fools call wise know this world and how to live in it, but not how to make it a world worth living in.
The only thing we do not and cannot learn in this life is how to live.
We never learned how to live with the knowledge that everything we know is only a guess because we are finite, and the universe in infinite. Guesses become dangerous if we believe—or choose to believe— they’re real in the same way we are real.
Our guesses seem more plausible as we learn more, and refine them accordingly; but they remain guesses because we're finite, and will always be limited in what we know.
To our senses the world appears made of objects like us; but when scientists use their instruments these objects no longer appear solid, but particles in a void. Fools now assume that what scientists see with their instruments is more real than what we see with our senses; but both are equally aspects of reality—or equally illusory, if we assume one or the other is the infinite reality we’re unable to see because of our own limits.
We know that what we know is, and always will be, less than what there is to know because we are finite and what there is to know is infinite. That knowledge frightens us, so we pretend that while we may not know everything, we know enough because we have wise men to tell us all we need to know. We want to trust those men as children trust, or want to trust, their parents; but just as we eventually learn our parents aren't infallible, the more we learn, the more aware we become that our wise men don’t know everything. And that frightens us.
Not the fear of death, but the fear of what we don’t know is our greatest fear; because we don’t know what death is.
Priests told us death is not the end—we go on living in some afterlife. We believed them—or rather we suspended our disbelief—because they were wiser than we were. Now scientists tell us death is the end, and we fear death because we no longer trust our wise men to tell us the truth.
The wise can do no more than make educated guesses based on the evidence available to them, just as we all do. For most of us, what the wise tell us is a large part of that evidence. Only fools demand certainty, either of others or themselves, and prefer charlatans who promise them certainty instead of wise men who only make educated guesses.
Americans have always preferred charlatans who promise them certainty. They elected Trump because they finally lost faith in rulers whom they were fools to have ever trusted—but they still wanted to remain childlike and innocent, so they merely rejected one charlatan for another, even worse one.
Trump believes, or claims to believe, the pandemic will magically disappear because he’s a senile con man. His supporters believe, or claim to believe, this absurd claim because they want to be innocent children who think wishing will make it so.
Those who fools call wise know this world and how to live in it, but not how to make it a world worth living in.
The only thing we do not and cannot learn in this life is how to live.
We never learned how to live with the knowledge that everything we know is only a guess because we are finite, and the universe in infinite. Guesses become dangerous if we believe—or choose to believe— they’re real in the same way we are real.
Our guesses seem more plausible as we learn more, and refine them accordingly; but they remain guesses because we're finite, and will always be limited in what we know.
To our senses the world appears made of objects like us; but when scientists use their instruments these objects no longer appear solid, but particles in a void. Fools now assume that what scientists see with their instruments is more real than what we see with our senses; but both are equally aspects of reality—or equally illusory, if we assume one or the other is the infinite reality we’re unable to see because of our own limits.
We know that what we know is, and always will be, less than what there is to know because we are finite and what there is to know is infinite. That knowledge frightens us, so we pretend that while we may not know everything, we know enough because we have wise men to tell us all we need to know. We want to trust those men as children trust, or want to trust, their parents; but just as we eventually learn our parents aren't infallible, the more we learn, the more aware we become that our wise men don’t know everything. And that frightens us.
Not the fear of death, but the fear of what we don’t know is our greatest fear; because we don’t know what death is.
Priests told us death is not the end—we go on living in some afterlife. We believed them—or rather we suspended our disbelief—because they were wiser than we were. Now scientists tell us death is the end, and we fear death because we no longer trust our wise men to tell us the truth.
The wise can do no more than make educated guesses based on the evidence available to them, just as we all do. For most of us, what the wise tell us is a large part of that evidence. Only fools demand certainty, either of others or themselves, and prefer charlatans who promise them certainty instead of wise men who only make educated guesses.
Americans have always preferred charlatans who promise them certainty. They elected Trump because they finally lost faith in rulers whom they were fools to have ever trusted—but they still wanted to remain childlike and innocent, so they merely rejected one charlatan for another, even worse one.
Trump believes, or claims to believe, the pandemic will magically disappear because he’s a senile con man. His supporters believe, or claim to believe, this absurd claim because they want to be innocent children who think wishing will make it so.
No comments:
Post a Comment