The Source of Wisdom

It wasn't long ago – a few weeks ago (or a few days depending on whether you calculate from the day this was published or the day it was written) I wrote

I should point out that I'm right and you're wrong, but I'll deal with that issue at some time in the near future, and tell you how I know it.

And I'm going to deal with that issue here. But let me start with the words of others.

G-d said it. I believe it. It's true.

I saw that on a bumper sticker. That's certainly an answer. And it's an answer to virtually all questions. If you seek it, it is there.

But some may not be satisfied and ask for additional verification. They may wonder about the source.

How do I know? The Bible tells me so.

Those are among the lyrics of a song that was popular some years back. Simplistic, isn't it? But we all accept this kind of reasoning, even if we don't recognize that fact. We just find our gospel in different places.

I was reading a book recently, Alan Schwarz's A.D.H.D. Nation, and I was very impressed by it. It said so many things I knew to be true, about how we, as a nation, had taken a syndrome that involved a relatively small number of children and magnified it into a problem affecting three to six times the number of people who may have it. It's become fashionable – and an excuse for all sorts of failings. It provided a justification for taking drugs. And it involved all age groups.

In fact many of the books I read also confirm other views I have. The subject doesn't matter, but they're usually political. They clarify important issues and provide documentation of all the salient points that support my opinions. I'm in the avant-garde and the world is slowly catching up – at least I hope so. But I've always been ahead of my time.

The same is true of the newspapers and magazines I read. They're also among the enlightened, and their articles, opinions, and letters also parallel the views I hold. They substantiate all that I think and say (though admittedly I try to avoid actually speaking to others whenever I can). It's clear that others recognize the wisdom of all the views I hold.

Still, when I hear others speak (even if I don't speak, I listen) I usually find myself subjected to drivel and absurd ideas and thinking. Surely they'll learn, but they're not yet on the road to wisdom. What they say is almost as inane as what they read. I know that because they sometimes specify the newspaper from which they've gotten the nonsense. They treat the New York Times as if it were the source of the gospel. They believe everything that it deems fit to print. (How do I know? The New York Times tells me so.)

Will Rogers said, in a self-deprecating manner, “All I know is just what I read in the papers,” and he was a very smart man. But he continued, “and that's an alibi for my ignorance.” The ideas that he took from those papers (and I'm sure he wasn't talking about the paper I read) were nonsense, and, in his droll and “innocent” manner, he made that clear to his audience. So those who read those papers, and those who take seriously what they have to say and who repeat it, are speaking nonsense. The readers of those rags probably hold those perverted views anyway, and that's why they choose inferior media. Most of the media are ignorant. They don't agree with me. So most people are similarly ignorant. They reflect the nescient notions (no, I am not William Safire) that the media they follow advance.

It is reassuring to mention that the books I read and the media I absorb, reinforce the wisdom that I know to be reliable. As opposed to the misinformation swallowed by others, the sources I value are wise. They are perceptive and understanding of the meaning and implications of what they are reporting. And they can be relied on.

So if they agree with me, and they do, they prove my correctness – not that I ever doubted it. After all, I'm always right. And if you don't agree, you're wrong.

[If you consider this circular – or (incor)rectangular for that matter – reasoning, you're wrong.]

September 28, 2016.

Some Thoughts

SPOILER ALERT: This essay will deal with the subject of death. If that offends you, depresses you, or is of no interest, now is the time to bail out. No one will know except you.

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You're probably aware by now that I've had surgery for cancer (of the pancreas) but since no evidence of spread was found during the procedure, and all the lymph nodes removed were free of tumor, my doctor is optimistic. So am I. The surgery was six months ago today (irrespective of when you're reading this, “today” is September 15^th, 2016 and I was operated on on March 15^th) and a CT examination I had earlier this week (because of a continued elevation of a particular blood marker) only demonstrated the presence of a fluid collection at the operative site – a not uncommon event – but no evidence of recurrence. In all likelihood that fluid collection, a seroma, was the cause of the blood abnormality. What could be bad? I'm receiving chemotherapy as a “precautionary” measure but there's no particular finding to follow apart from how I feel, which is fine apart from occasional abdominal pains which aren't new. Actually I'm hungry most of the time.

What follows is something I wrote earlier this week. It will serve as a beginning of a description of my thought processes during the past few months.

Feeling pretty good today. The anxiety has worn off and I'm back to my usual (lack of) serenity. Yesterday's I was dying (literally, I thought) but not today. Not “dying” in the sense that a stand-up comedian might suggest – “I was dying out there” – but in a very physical sense. With the rising Ca 19-9 and the increasing abdominal symptoms [probably psychosomatic] I was convinced that there was a recurrence. The reassurance from the CT has eased my mind. There are still some explanations required, but they're relatively insignificant.

I wrote it earlier this week, the day following the CT – the day my doctor read the report to me. Since a couple of weeks prior to my surgery, starting about the time the diagnosis was originally made, I've been keeping a “diary” of my thoughts about the whole affair. (I've also had separate ideas that I haven't recorded and I'll include them as I relate a summary of the maunderings that appear in the diary.) I may even have expounded on some of them before in this series of essays. Who remembers? Indulge me. I'd do the same for you.

Not surprisingly, a lot of the diary is devoted to thoughts about death. It hasn't really mattered whether I was feeling well at the time or whether my symptoms were obvious – death has always been coloring my thoughts (and, from now on, I guess it always will). It's been difficult to consider anything without giving thought to how my death would affect it. That means that I've wondered about the wisdom of buying new things that I can do without if I'm going to die soon; it means that I keep wondering how everything will work out. I'm convinced that my death will mean a complete separation from all my experiences in this world; that if, in some form of “life” after death, I have any cognition, it will be totally unrelated to my life's contents: I won't have any knowledge of the people I knew or the world in which I lived. It will be a totally unrelated phenomenon, one lacking in awareness of this world. It's not all bad, though. I don't recall large parts of my childhood yet I don't suffer from the lack. And if my understanding of the teachings of my heritage is correct, it will be far more glorious than anything I've ever experienced.

But I've spent more time pondering what concerns me more, which is the possibility of eternal nothingness. If that's the case, however, I'll never know it. And that's what probably bothers me more than any other consideration. I'll never know what people said about me at my funeral – for better or for worse. Some, but not all, will be true. Of course it will all be complimentary – you don't speak ill of the dead. At least not in front of a grieving family and other witnesses. But, as I said, I'll never know.

And, I fear, I'll never know what happened with my children, grandchildren, and the generations that followed, nor what happened to my country and the world situation. And I'll be completely ignorant of the fate of my people. But, of course, I won't be aware of that ignorance or of my lack of knowledge of other matters – of anything at all.

And that's the “rub.” I've always wanted to know how things turn out. What happened next. Sleep has never been a threat because I was always confident I'd wake up afterwards. I'm not especially concerned about nightmares since, for the most part, they haven't been a problem. And dreams provided interesting interludes – diverting nocturnes. I didn't always remember their contents, but, when I awoke, I knew that I had had them and enjoyed myself along the way.

“When I awoke.” That was the key. I was sure that I'd wake up. There was a future. So if I missed something while I was sleeping I could always catch up on it when I awoke. But if the scenario of eternal nothingness is correct there will be no catching up. I'll never know, and I'll never know that I don't know. And I won't care. In fact I won't anything.

I'm not afraid of death. I'm aware that I haven't gone through all of Kubler Ross's stages. Denial of course. I'm perpetually in denial. But no anger, bargaining, or depression. Straight through to acceptance. Of course at my age death is always on the horizon so I've come to accept the idea that, sooner or later, it will come. It's normal. Death is a normal part of life. I'm no different from everyone who preceded me. And, after a while, I'll be forgotten by those who knew me. Those who didn't will have nothing to forget.

And I'll never know what happened next.