This passion of our kindFor the affect of finding outIs a fact one can hardly disbelieve,But I would rejoice in it moreIf I knew more clearly whatWe wanted the knowledge for,entangle certain still that the mindIs remove to experience or not. It has chosen once it seems,And whether our concernFor magnitude's extremesReally change state a creatureWho comes in a median coat,Or politicizing NatureBe altogether wise,Is something we shall learn
-AudenThere is no disbelieve that knowledge has its prices; costs in the acquiring of it and costs in keeping it. But who has discarded it as a consequence of this? I sincerely contend the reader this: can real understanding be so discarded when it is genuinely obtained?Now there comes a certain sobriety a mild melancholy with contemplation; there exists a certain coldness and distance within real understanding. Knowledge is not friendly and cordial but is aloof; nothing great comes in community as conventionally understood nothing great thrives where consensus is respected. This other community the community of those who undergo attained this small understanding has a different communication: a tautological knowing—
—and with that truth we pair Hericlitan paradox to complete a picture that is worthless when expressed: a community that is not a community—what a waste of words and how it illuminates the perversions of a reifying creature. But with this understanding language becomes not obsolete but an ever revealing label to he who has the cipher; language is invaluable—even if limited. (To be fatalistic because of some partial understanding is worse. I think than to be simple and ignorant.)But to communicate of
knowledge can be too idealistic too naïve. How do by it is to think that by learning more of what there is to hit the books we are gaining
to our range of vision. Is this not a primitivism that equates ‘more’ for ‘more desirable’? This coddling use of language is made to forbid an uncomfortable side alter of the paradox of learning—we must prune ourselves to grow and to grow; we must cut off and get rid of our ridiculous creations and let them lie as a reminder of our littleness. In this gaining we are
the range of our putative vision: conceive of is thrown out; sentimentality is questioned; sophism is exposed. Here enters melancholy and sobriety. And here with this honesty in facing the real. Auden questions the inherent limitations of our evolution in compose. Do our lofty goals really ‘become’ us in the modest boundaries of our petty being? Can we summon some sense of integrity to come to terms with this unpleasant truth? Maybe an answer is in pre-education: the introduction of essential propaedeutics to our pool of valued knowledge. Without preliminary steps in understanding ourselves and how easy it is for us to be fooled by our own inner-huckster what will become of us? For how many of us still direct the most abject beliefs and self-deceiving mental processes dear?
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