Too Much Information
Playing the part of vivisectionist is natural, I suppose, up to a certain point in a student’s life. The excuse is readymade and placed in our hands—force-fed to us, really—”You are yet too ignorant to bring aught to birth! Sit at your master’s feet, learn his doctrines, and then perhaps you will be fertile.” We are instructed to slice into yet another amphibious specimen, to quell our ignorance with the alchemical juices of its innards. Gathering them, we will one day enact the Magnum Opus. But until then, ignorance, whether real or imagined, paralyzes the faculties, rendering stillborn those fruits we have managed to bring forth by paroxysmal labors. Exhausted, we lapse into sloth.
It’s rather obvious that I’ve fallen to this disease. Four posts over the course of nearly three months—this post being the fifth? Pathetic. Too much goes on in my head to excuse this authorial stinginess. At the very least, I should be able to provide some comments on the veritable deluge of books and articles I swallow whole on a regular basis. What is most needful of all, however, is to enter conversation. I have hidden behind the curtain, partaking voyeuristically of the intellectual intercourse when I ought to add my seed. Today, I cast off my robe, this fear of ignorance. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?
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