According to the Socratic Paradox, Socrates knew more than anybody else because he knew that he knew nothing. I would like to suggest that I personally have surpassed Socrates in that respect.
Since the age of Socrates, there has been an unthinkable increase in things that can be known. Among the newly knowable things are scientific facts that had been unknowable because the technology had not yet advanced sufficiently. But the universe of knowable things has also grown by production. Socrates could not have known any Shakespearean poetry, for example, because the English language did not yet exist. Similarly, Socrates could not know how to change a fuel filter on a 1987 Buick Regal. For me, however, the poetry of the Bard, and the basic maintenance of mid-sized American automobiles are well within the realm of knowable things. Socrates may know that he knows nothing, but the nothing that I know is even less!
I do know, however, six more poems than I did three months ago. In that time, as in the first three and second three months of this year, I memorized two poems per month:
Invictus by William Ernest Henley,
I taste a liquor never brewed by Emily Dickinson,
The Village Blacksmith by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge,
To Althea, From Prison by Richard Lovelace, and
Hot and Cold by Roald Dahl.
As I typed that list, I could not recall the title of Hot and Cold for the life of me. Somehow I had a poem totally memorized and yet I could not think of it. I can’t really claim to know the sixth poem if I cannot think of it. I don’t even know the things that I know. Take that Socrates!
Beer of the week: Tuckerman’s Headwall Alt – This “German style brown ale” is a handsome red-brown, with a lovely head. The aroma is of dark bread. Dark bread notes dominate the flavor as well, with a pleasant smokey finish.
Reading of the week: I taste a liquor never brewed by Emily Dickinson – The flavor of “a liquor never brewed” is one of the many things that I do not know. But I know that this is a fun poem that draws on a lot of temperance imagery, including being an “inebriate of air” and “debauchee of dew.”
Question of the week: The sum total of human knowledge is much greater now than it was in antiquity. Consequently, each individual–even the most educated among us–knows a smaller portion of the total. So do we know more than the ancients or do we know less?
Many years ago, I found myself in an off-campus student apartment late at night. The evening had started with cheap keg beer, had proceeded to cheap Canadian whiskey, and, eventually, dumpster-dived Trader Joe’s orange juice. (The OJ was excellent and expiration dates are a lie.)
Anyway, I was in an unfamiliar apartment, with a few people whom I had only just met. I was sitting in a lounge chair. It’s owner, for some reason, decided that the time was right to inform me that his mother had died in that very chair. I was not horrified by the information, but I was fairly rattled by the next sentence:
“My father looked at me and said, ‘We’re finally free.’ ”
In the moment, the idea of a loved one’s death as liberating did not make any sense to me. This appeared to me to be the “monstrous joy” in Kate Chopin’s The Story of an Hour; the perverse realization that another’s death can brighten our own prospect for happiness. And the joy is all the more monstrous because it is so plausible. One simply must deny that there can be any joy in the passing of a loved one, yet there are so many ways in which such an event may be liberating.
But all these years later, I see how little I understood of the situation. I finally appreciate that the statement “we’re finally free” is not the same as “I am glad she’s dead.” I also understand that the “we” in the father’s statement may have included the mother. If she had suffered from a long and painful illness, she may have been freed by the “sweet release of death.”
My own shock on hearing the story was in large part because I have been so lucky with respect to the health of my loved ones. I had not witnessed a long, slow deterioration of health, or even been affected by any untimely deaths. I do not know now how I will react to any given loved one’s death, but I hope that I will not judge myself harshly for my own response. Whether I weep for days or laugh at all of the fun times we had, grief (like death itself) is not something to be planned.
Beer of the week: Zipline Copper Alt – This dark amber altbier comes from Nebraska’s Zipline Brewing Company. It has a nice, rocky head that fades quickly but leaves some noticeable lacing. The aroma has sourdough hints. The label says to look for chocolate and hazelnut notes, but I only get the hazelnut. This beer is a good find.
Reading of the week: The Story of an Hour by Kate Chopin – I don’t want to spoil this excellent story here, so I will only quote from the first line: “Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband’s death.”
Question for the week: Is there a “wrong” way to grieve?