I wish I was wise, you know? As a writer and reader, you expect pith and depth and grace and elegance. You expect to be led by a grandfather or grandmother, who sits on a rocking chair, as you sit on the porch swing, and the grandparent just says the right words—no, not the words you want to hear, but the weight and gravity of very truth itself.
No, I’m not one of those Mark Twains, or Ben Franklin, or even stretching back to the eloquent Roman orator Seneca. I feel you sort of have to eat your vegetables, wake up early, earn a living, reach a maturity of experience, to say the words that people so desperately need to hear, there on that porch swing, with the sun going down.
Truth was, for me, killed, or rather, I sort of am in pursuit of the corpse of Truth. And if I find Truth alive, perhaps, then I will be wise, both on paper and in life. I feel alone in believing that truth was killed long ago. How could anyone know truth then or now?
Perhaps wisdom is not the synonym of truth. Perhaps wisdom wins the battle over the biases of men and women that are called truth. Perhaps wisdom weighs more and is bigger and grander, shining like the sun out there where you and I meet. Perhaps wisdom is simpler than intelligence, but harder to grasp, to take hold, to believe, to believe in. Perhaps wisdom is in tune and in accord with the reality of nature, like a Gorilla or pigeon, somehow infinitely wiser than the verbal human. Perhaps the reason we worshiped animals long ago was not as gods but as creatures of wisdom. Is a gorilla or pigeon the truth?
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