Less Than Words Can Say | Page 2

language. Evil language. Here was
a man taking the public money for the work of his mind and darkening
counsel by words without understanding.
Words never fail. We hear them, we read them; they enter into the mind
and become part of us for as long as we shall live. Who speaks reason
to his fellow men bestows it upon them. Who mouths inanity disorders
thought for all who listen. There must be some minimum allowable
dose of inanity beyond which the mind cannot remain reasonable.
Irrationality, like buried chemical waste, sooner or later must seep into
all the tissues of thought.
This man had offered me inanity. I had almost seized it. If I told you
that this little book would provide you with general insight into the
knowledge of a discipline, would you read on? If so, then you had
better read on, for you are in danger. People all around you are offering
inanity, and you are ready to seize it, like any well-behaved American
consumer dutifully swallowing the best advertised pill. You are, in a

certain sense, unconscious.
Language is the medium in which we are conscious. The speechless
beasts are aware, but they are not conscious. To be conscious is to
``know with'' something, and a language of some sort is the device with
which we know. More precisely, it is the device with which we can
know. We don't have to. We can, if we please, speak of general insight
into the knowledge of a discipline and forgo knowing.
Consciousness has degrees. We can be wide awake or sound asleep.
We can be anesthetized. He is not fully conscious who can speak
lightly of such things as basic appreciations and general insights into
the knowledge of a discipline. He wanders in the twilight sleep of
knowing where insubstantial words, hazy and disembodied, have fled
utterly from things and ideas. His is an attractive world, dreamy and
undemanding, a Lotus-land of dozing addicts. They blow a little smoke
our way. It smells good. Suddenly and happily we realize that our
creative capacities and self-understanding yearn after basic
appreciations and general insights. We nod, we drowse, we fall asleep.
I am trying to stay awake.

The Worm in the Brain
There's an outrageous but entertaining assertion about language and the
human brain in Carl Sagan's Dragons of Eden. It is possible, Sagan
says, to damage the brain in precisely such a way that the victim will
lose the ability to understand the passive or to devise prepositional
phrases or something like that. No cases are cited, unfortunately--it
would be fun to chat with some victim--but the whole idea is attractive,
because if it were true it would explain many things. In fact, I can think
of no better way to account for something that happened to a friend of
mine -- and probably to one of yours too.
He was an engaging chap, albeit serious. We did some work together --
well, not exactly work, committee stuff -- and he used to send me a

note whenever there was to be a meeting. Something like this: ``Let's
meet next Monday at two o'clock, OK?'' I was always delighted to read
such perfect prose.
Unbeknownst to us all, however, something was happening in that
man's brain. Who can say what? Perhaps a sleeping genetic defect was
stirring, perhaps some tiny creature had entered in the porches of his
ear and was gnawing out a home in his cranium. We'll never know.
Whatever it was, it had, little by little, two effects. At one and the same
time, he discovered in himself the yearning to be an assistant dean pro
tem, and he began to lose the power of his prose. Ordinary opinion, up
to now, has always held that one of these things, either one, was the
cause of the other. Now we can at last guess the full horror of the truth.
Both are symptoms of serious trouble in the brain.
Like one of these Poe characters whose friends are all doomed, I
watched, helpless, the inexorable progress of the disease. Gradually but
inevitably my friend was being eaten from within. In the same week
that saw his application for the newly created post of assistant dean pro
tem, he sent me the following message: ``This is to inform you that
there'll be a meeting next Monday at 2:00.'' Even worse, much worse,
was to come.
A week or so later it was noised about that he would indeed take up
next semester a new career as a highranking assistant dean pro tem. I
was actually writing him a note of congratulation when the campus
mail brought me what was to be his last announcement of a meeting of
our committee. Hereafter he would be frying fatter