People cannot learn what they think they know unless they are deeply curious about it, even for a moment. As we entered September this year, which is probably in the top three of my favourites, I learned the other meaning of the month. The first month of autumn, the first day of the second spring of the year.
I was a child who loved dictionaries, I always had them in my hands. It was one of our primary school teachers' instructions, and I did the same for English in high school. I never forgot that I once complained that my childish mind was very inadequate because I realised that I could not explain what the basic concepts were. In fact, it was quite natural, but I think my brain needed more information.
In other words, the use of a dictionary had created an awareness in me; as much as it was instructive, it also showed me how little I knew. At this point it is up to us to see the glass as half full or half empty. I think those were the most productive years of my life, yes, I'm talking about the ages of seven, eight, nine. Those were the times when I was motivated to devour everything and I could see that I was withering away as time went on. Once again I was struck by the realisation of something. Yes, maybe I was not the only one, but it was sad to see it in myself.
Believe me, I've had a troubled, anxious nature since I was a child. It sounds strange, but it is, and I have no idea what caused it. Because there is not even a period when I can go back to my childhood to observe it, it has been like this from the beginning. Even when I'm playing a game, it's ingrained in my mind to question the opposite. I'm sure it will haunt me until the day I die.
The dictionary was a source of reassurance in this respect, because I could almost always find the answer to the word I didn't know and accept it as correct. Of course, this is no longer the case, things have changed. The more ideas there are, the less knowledge there is. This may seem like a surprising contradiction, but it is. I think it is one of the biggest problems of our time.
When the points I need to consult on a subject are always fragmented, I sometimes can't help but think how efficient a centralised hub could be. It could reduce my anxiety, increase my confidence in what I have found, or help me overcome the difficulties of the times. Then I remember how dishonest the world has become, and all my dreams are shattered. I know that such a structure would not fail to pave the way for dystopian days and outcomes.
To sum up, I have been curious about knowledge, I have benefited from the abundance of relatively local and limited knowledge in the analogue world, I have been comforted by the ever-increasing flood of information, I have watched with pain as my thirst has been quenched, and now, more than ever, I am tasting my pessimism, the source of which I must assume to be genetic because I cannot unravel it.
Photo by Eduardo Olszewski on Unsplash
Let's come to the present. As a good habit, I have not lost touch with dictionaries. In fact, I can say that I use them more now than at any time since primary school. The reason is that I write more. I wonder if I hadn't been writing, would I ever have thought to consult one? See, I did it again. I started with 'I wonder' but ended with a negative tone.
So what is the remedy? As they say, 'To conquer your fear, conquer it', perhaps this can be applied. We need to pursue subjects that will lead us to real and certain knowledge. This may be what we hear in the writings of our friends, what we are curious about in the books we read, or what we need to learn properly before we attempt to write. In other words, it is necessary to be deliberate in the acquisition of knowledge. Of course, we should know that curiosity, which is the most important material, should be within us. We should write, read and create regularly so that the preservation of knowledge takes different forms, branches out and develops.
For that, I have been reading books since primary school. I think writing begins with reading. Most of the time it doesn't matter what we write, that's true. But in order to create something, it is necessary to analyse what is being created. If we want to use this word, we must first observe where it is being used.
Reading books helped me to take notes, to ask my elders what the word meant, to become selective in my perception and to catch more of the learned words during the day and to be more focused in my lessons. As the frequency of these things decreased, I started to trust what I knew. I think this is the best part of the anxiety I dislike: we should wonder, question and doubt what we think we know.
But what if, for some reason, we can't do that anymore?
Yesterday I was thinking again about what happens if our access to information is somehow restricted, if the accuracy of statements cannot be verified, or if sources disappear altogether. What would the world be like if we couldn't access the internet, for example? How would our lives be affected if we couldn't consult our favourite sources? At that moment, giant encyclopaedias, no longer admired, and dictionaries, lying on dusty shelves, would proudly rise again. There would be an unprecedented demand for books. People would learn to hold a pen again. Digital-friendly keyboards would be replaced by noisy typewriters. Demand for headache medication would increase.
I know this sounds like a very post-apocalyptic scenario, but who can accurately predict what will happen in the world tomorrow? Whether we like it or not, life will take unexpected turns.
Actually, as you will notice, this time it is not a matter of anxiety, but of curiosity. Because I can't help wondering whether, as time goes on, a structure will emerge that overturns evolution.
In a nutshell, we should continue all forms of education, regardless of age or period. We should spend time reading, writing, researching, taking notes, questioning, documenting. We should pursue whatever we feel is necessary. The unseen evolution of man is the preservation and advancement of knowledge. As the great novelist and scholar John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, whose death anniversary is today, said:
”True education is a kind of never ending story — a matter of continual beginnings, of habitual fresh starts, of persistent newness.”
Comments