For no reason at all, let me start with an excerpt from one of my favourite books, The Street of Crocodiles by Bruno Schulz:
Before the horse’s breast the rampart of white snowy foam grew higher an higher, and it could hardly wade through the pure fresh mass. At last we stopped. I got out of the cab. The horse was panting, hanging its head. I hugged its head to my breast and saw that were tears in its large eyes. I noticed a round black wound on its belly. “Why did not you tell me?” I whispered, crying. “My dearest, I did it for you,” the horse said and became very small, like a wooden toy.
This is one page among hundreds, among the countless remarkable works of prose the world has produced; add to them the sum total of the world’s scientific discoveries, plays, poetry, religions, trips to the moon, ideas, histories, cultures, and so much that I have omitted, and you have sum of what we’ve created since day zero. Subtract, for the purposes of honesty, all that we’ve done wrong, and there is so much – world wars and genocides; horrific regimes and terrible crimes – and you have what this world has to offer. In the nineteenth century it was called progress; in the twentieth, history. Today, it is an inconvenient baggage of humanism in an age of relativism.
About a week ago, I read the MSNBC story about the ‘threatened’ tribes of Brazil – one of the remaining forty or so uncontacted groups of people in the world, who remain unaware of everything that I have listed above.
Were we take all that I have listed, and calculate, critically and empirically, objectively, that we have come out negative, that at the end of the day, our world is wicked, then perhaps it would give me a pause before writing this article. I would be inclined to revisit the numbers; perhaps someone hadn’t carried a zero.
No one has done this.
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