I’m coming to terms with the enormity of my ignorance. It amazes me how much I’ll never know. About history, economics, science, technology, international relations, the natural world, nearly any academic discipline, I’m bereft of the ABC’s, much less XYZ’s. Even on the few subjects where I’ve some awareness – literature in English, American politics, the music we call classical – I cast as much light as a firefly in the dark.
In my career years, my ignorance didn’t trouble me because my need to know absorbed all my strength. I was at least slightly expert in my industry, “on top of” developments, knowledgeable enough to opine on trends. The early years of our retirement Jane and I lived in Rome, where our lack of knowledge – of language, customs, art – was luxuriously vast. I say luxuriously because, as a stranger in a strange land, one can hardly rue one’s illiteracy. Among travel’s many joys is relief from the responsibility of awareness.
These days pondering’s my avowed vocation. I set myself up – the presumption! – as a voice worth heeding. I read to stay abreast but even of my beloveds – Thoreau, say – I’ve digested only a slice of a scholar’s portion.
And the problem compounds constantly, as the Web collects and classifies slews of information from illimitable sources. AI and Wiki summarize – bless them for their copious recollection and uncomplaining assistance – but they too are blurred by biases and “don’t know what they don’t know.”
Like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, I’m forever bailing not to drown. Amidst infinite ignorance, how to keep sane and, with any luck, sound?
The polymath, a gleaming prodigy from the Renaissance through the mid-twentieth century, is no longer possible. No one can know most, even much, of all that’s known. Eager knowers must either confine their attention to a sub-subspecialty, where they can be confidently expert, or adjust the paradigm by which they judge their performance. I will never know an iota of all I’d like to, but might I be wise? Instead of a capacious container of mankind’s bounty, might I be a compass needle pointing justly? If wisdom, not expertise, is my goal, how to get there?
Beats me. Montaigne’s conclusion – “Que sais je?”: “What do I know?” – is where sanity must commence. I don’t know and never will. Yet I must proceed – through time – make choices – place one foot ahead of the other – dope things out sufficiently not to topple, like Breughel’s blind men, into the awful ditch. How?
I trust. Who? Myself. Feeling my way through the fog, I follow where my words take me. How do I know I’m headed right? I don’t. But if I listen hard – in the stillness of the night, especially, after a restorative rest – maybe I’ll hear what I’m being told. Like the compass needle, I let atmospheric currents point me. Like dog-pal Henry, I obey my instincts without overthinking.
A mystical, superstitious strategy? You bet. Like Saint Francis, I trust a larger invisible authority to steer me. Arrogant? I’d argue otherwise. Helpless, rather. “Into thy hands, Lord, I commend my spirit.”
The more that’s known, the smaller our sliver of awareness, the more urgent for each to “think things through” on their own. Too many of my countrymen remind me of Breughel’s blind men, leading one another to their perdition. If only they could see with their own eyes!
Modernity, physically convenient, is existentially inconvenient. We’re stupefied. We can’t agree on a book to trust. Confused, we tune out or embrace false idols. Our anxiety angers us. All I know is I never will. With this I must make my peace.