What exactly are we doing that is more important than seeking a profound understanding of ourselves and the world we inhabit? “Caring for our children,” a mother might reply. But what aspect of this care could possibly be more important than imparting a sense of intellectual curiosity and a passion for profundity to our children? How will we do this if we are not even seeking profundity ourselves? Are we so sure it is wise to chase after honors and rewards in order to provide our children luxuries, which merely destine them to a life of superficiality? Wouldn’t it be better to sit and beg in the street as we set an example of dedication to the life of the mind?
A beautiful mind, disfigured by the whip.
A once proud mind, with bent back and stooped shoulders.
The product of our education.
To what shall I equate my secret longing to be free?
Mathematics remains mute, leaving me to suffer.
In the language of mathematics, the question can't even be asked.
A philistine generation of philosophers, influenced more by Frege than Shakespeare, would like us to stop asking such questions. “If it can’t be expressed in the language of mathematics,” they say, “then it's meaningless.”
Biology gives me a plausible explanation for the origin of man. Archaeology tells me what my ancestors did and thought about. But what shall I do? What shall I think about? Science has no answer.
Do I want to be a perfectly functioning part in the machine of commerce?
Do I want to be part of something beautiful?
Or should I strive to become something beautiful myself?
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