There are few things that The Bard hates. He does not say dislike, mind you, or detest, or despise, or loathe, or even abhor. No, he says none of these things. They are but varying degrees of his general equation with several minor failings of the world. He says hate and he means hate when he says it.
Among these very few objects of his hate (and such hate it is!) is the presumption of knowledge. He sees all sorts of men, smug in their confidence, in their absolute arrogance, about knowing things. He sees such men, and he hates them for their presumptions. He would prefer sadness and sympathy to such a strong feeling as hate, but sometimes such emotions will not be helped, or held at bay. Not even by The Bard.
So, he was talking about these men. For such as them, knowledge is not a pursuit. It is not even a mystery, or a love. No, for them, it is an obsession. It is just the short-spent lust, like what men sometimes do to their hands in the long lonely hours.
Knowledge should not be a wasted word. We have enough of these wasted words today. Words like 'wisdom', 'love', 'art', 'honor', 'joy'. Power, Integrity, Sorrow. I. Me. Mine.
These words have become like tools. People would not earn them, or struggle in their practice with them, just swing them like blunt weapons, or wear them like assorted clothes. It saddens The Bard, and sometimes it pains him.
The world is falling as it ever was; and The Bard holds humanity responsible.
The thing about humanity is, it is but a child of the mind. From the Vedic Age to the Christian, the wheel to the guitar, money to poetry, sympathy to disgust, ours has been a development of the mind. And in such development, we have probably left civilization and reason behind. Today, everyone is a self-established intellectual. Everyone is an individual, everyone an artist, analyst and wise.
The mind takes pleasure in indulgence of excess, and we are but like armatures to the machine. In ways more than one, we are so governed by our mind's want of progress, that we become obsessive about knowledge. We do not strive to achieve it, though that is usually how it begins and how it should be. Instead, we war to possess it, to own it. We forget it is not a destination we are looking for, but an atmosphere.
Knowledge is not a thing you could contain. It is pervasive, The Bard explains. Some profound man said that it cannot be found in libraries, but it is like a library you build, around yourself, through experience. Knowledge is also not shouted, it is preferably kept. If need be, it is expressed. Or imparted, if the object of the teaching is deep enough, and the source content in teaching.
Above all, true knowledge is humbling, dear reader. The Bard does not claim to have any real depth where it is concerned, he confesses, but he does have an inkling of it. If you were any wiser, you too would shake away your presumptions and your pride. He does not really wish to hate you or your kind, after all.
Among these very few objects of his hate (and such hate it is!) is the presumption of knowledge. He sees all sorts of men, smug in their confidence, in their absolute arrogance, about knowing things. He sees such men, and he hates them for their presumptions. He would prefer sadness and sympathy to such a strong feeling as hate, but sometimes such emotions will not be helped, or held at bay. Not even by The Bard.
So, he was talking about these men. For such as them, knowledge is not a pursuit. It is not even a mystery, or a love. No, for them, it is an obsession. It is just the short-spent lust, like what men sometimes do to their hands in the long lonely hours.
Knowledge should not be a wasted word. We have enough of these wasted words today. Words like 'wisdom', 'love', 'art', 'honor', 'joy'. Power, Integrity, Sorrow. I. Me. Mine.
These words have become like tools. People would not earn them, or struggle in their practice with them, just swing them like blunt weapons, or wear them like assorted clothes. It saddens The Bard, and sometimes it pains him.
The world is falling as it ever was; and The Bard holds humanity responsible.
The thing about humanity is, it is but a child of the mind. From the Vedic Age to the Christian, the wheel to the guitar, money to poetry, sympathy to disgust, ours has been a development of the mind. And in such development, we have probably left civilization and reason behind. Today, everyone is a self-established intellectual. Everyone is an individual, everyone an artist, analyst and wise.
The mind takes pleasure in indulgence of excess, and we are but like armatures to the machine. In ways more than one, we are so governed by our mind's want of progress, that we become obsessive about knowledge. We do not strive to achieve it, though that is usually how it begins and how it should be. Instead, we war to possess it, to own it. We forget it is not a destination we are looking for, but an atmosphere.
Knowledge is not a thing you could contain. It is pervasive, The Bard explains. Some profound man said that it cannot be found in libraries, but it is like a library you build, around yourself, through experience. Knowledge is also not shouted, it is preferably kept. If need be, it is expressed. Or imparted, if the object of the teaching is deep enough, and the source content in teaching.
Above all, true knowledge is humbling, dear reader. The Bard does not claim to have any real depth where it is concerned, he confesses, but he does have an inkling of it. If you were any wiser, you too would shake away your presumptions and your pride. He does not really wish to hate you or your kind, after all.
