February 19, 2010
let me tell you a little story:
there was once a young man who dreamed to reducing the world to pure logic. Because he was a very cleaver young man, he managed to do it. When he finished his work he stood back and admired it. It was beautiful, a world purged of imperfection and indeterminacy, countless acres of gleaming ice stretch to the horizon. So the cleaver young looked around the world he created and decided to explore it. He took one step forward and fell flat on his back. You see, he forgot about friction, the ice was smooth and level and stainless, but you couldn’t walk there. So the cleaver young man set down and wept bitter tears. As he grew into a wise old man, he started to understand that roughens and ambiguity aren’t imperfections, they are what make the world turns. He want to run and dance, on the words and things that scattered upon the ground, all battered and tarnished and ambiguous. The wise old man saw that is the way things were. But something in him still hope for the ice, where everything is radiant and absolute and relentless. Though he come to like the idea of rough ground, he could live there. So now he is trapped between earth and ice, at home of neither. And this is the cause of all his grieve.