I don’t
know how to handle random intellectual urges, small fits of disinterested
curiosity. So I give in to them. This
morning, out of a sudden, I interrupted a very, very important task to start
listening to the radio, which I had switched off just an hour earlier after
considerable mental struggle. It was a tormenting choice between crucially important things
to do and outstandingly important things to find out about.
I could
hear a little intellectual angel, or demon, whisper into my ear: “You’re
missing something on BBC Radio 4. How are you going to understand the Universe
without that bit of info??” What was I to do? Have I got enough faith to trust
that my intellectual greed will be satisfied if I don’t ruthlessly go about
satisfying it myself?
One of
my biggest concerns, in this context, regarding the afterlife is whether my thirst to know all
will be finally quenched. And being wise enough now to know that you learn more
from the Universe itself than from stuff written about it, and often more from trivia (but never small talk!)
than treatises, I sometimes care less whether I’m going to find out what conversations
Carl Menger had in the pubs of Nowy Sacz, how things turned for King Oedipus (whose
story I dropped mid-way, barely able to take in the profundity of the first
hundred verses), why the hell major Central Banks have decided to ruin the
global economy by ruining their respective currencies*, or who else Ulysses** ran into after deserting Calypso and before he reached again and re-consumed Penelope – than
whether I’ll be filled in on those mind-boggling, Universe expanding facts that
happen on a daily basis all around us, and which are tirelessly reported in
random conversations in post-office queues, tabloids and lighter radio
programmes; facts such as the one I would have missed if it hadn’t been for my
decision to commit a random distraction, prompted by the whispering of an
intellectual angel (or demon):
“I got a frozen chicken as a prize for taking part
in Waiting for Godot.” **
*not the one by Joyce; I’m sure it would be more
educational for me to write a book like that than to read one.
**This morning's Saturday Live on BBC Radio 4
**This morning's Saturday Live on BBC Radio 4
(Painting: Herbert James Draper; poster: it was taking too
long to establish who it's by and I gave in to another random intellectual urge...)
