Here is perhaps one of the best essays I have read in a few years. I wish I could meet the fellow who wrote it. I would shake his hand and tell him, “I have met a good man, a sensible man, an honest man.” It says so much about what I think infects us all; a ruinous weakening we mistake for strength. And, isn’t strength, and the beauty of strength, blindingly attractive?
The author limits his description of this disease to the technical professions only, but the disease is in our blood and in our souls. Actually the disease has always been here. You see it all around you. In such things as hook-ups, the dictatorship of relativism, the abolition of rights once central to the good of all while claiming new rights to control oneself and kill others we have today simply decided that there are no such things as “moral consequences” to any of our actions or decisions.
Our disease has been hatched in “hell’s horrid silence” and painted as our own right and due. That is the nature of the disease, to disguise itself, to hide until the symptom when they appear seem most natural, most appealing, most right; until we are changed at last into a “thing”; an object, a number, simply an other, even to ourselves.
We have, as the phrase goes, “drunk the Kool-Aid.” Our ancestors, the Older Ones, called it an apple. We have outgrown the image of an earlier age. Kool-Aid, a sweet and useless drink, serves well the purpose here. Like super-charged children on a sugar high we have drunk it and spend our days building and toppling, getting and spending, planning and executing ( a lovely word, that) finally fulfilling that shibboleth that haunts us and animates us: “to be weak is miserable.”
Zombies, supremely weak, we now only believe that “man is the measure of all things.” And, we scorn those few left who don’t. What we have become the measure of is what we have decided is all that matters, we are “the measure of things which are..” The bigger, the louder, the brasher, the more unnatural those things, including ourselves, the better.
What we cannot sense does not exist.
The essay is long. Attend, though, and perhaps begin your cure.