The sun was setting over the hills of Elis. The air was still, and the song of cicadas accompanied the slow arrival of evening. Pyrrho walked along a dusty path, followed by several young disciples.
As was often the case, he was not giving a formal lesson. He disliked solemn speeches and systematic lectures. He preferred to talk while walking, allowing questions to arise naturally.
Among the young men who followed him was Nicarcus, a particularly intelligent and curious student. For several days, he had seemed troubled by a question.
At one point, he approached the master.
“Pyrrho, may I ask you something?”
“You may ask me two things,” the philosopher replied with a smile.
“There is something I’d like to understand. You always encourage us to be cautious in our judgments. You say we should avoid proclaiming final truths. But then how are we supposed to live? Don’t we risk becoming paralyzed?”
Pyrrho bent down, picked up a small stone from the path, and examined it for a moment.
“Tell me, Nicarcus. What color is this stone?”
The young man looked surprised by the question.
“Gray.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
Pyrrho raised the stone toward the setting sun.
Golden reflections appeared on its surface.
“And now?”
Nicarcus hesitated.
“It almost looks yellow.”
“So is it gray or yellow?”
“That depends on the light.”
“Many things depend on the light,” Pyrrho observed.
They continued walking.
After a few minutes, they came across a farmer working in a nearby field. The man greeted the philosopher respectfully.
“Good evening, Pyrrho.”
“Good evening.”
Once they had walked on, the master asked:
“Do you think that man is happy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why not?”
“Because I only saw him for a few moments.”
“And yet someone might look at him and confidently say that he is happy.”
“That’s true.”
“And someone else might insist that he is unhappy.”
“That’s true as well.”
“You see?”
Nicarcus nodded before asking:
“Master, are you saying that we can know nothing?”
Pyrrho burst out laughing.
“No. I’m saying something quite different.”
“What?”
“That we often know less than we think we do.”
The group reached a small olive grove. The shadows of the trees stretched across the ground. Pyrrho stopped beside an ancient trunk.
“When I was young,” he said, “I met a man who claimed to possess the truth about everything.”
“Did he?”
“Of course not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he changed his mind every year.”
The disciples laughed.
“Each time he was absolutely certain of his new opinion,” Pyrrho continued. “And each time he forgot how certain he had been of the previous one.”
“That still happens today,” Nicarcus observed.
“Far more often than you imagine.”
They resumed their walk. The sun had nearly disappeared below the horizon.
“Tell me, Nicarcus,” the master continued. “Have you ever sailed at sea?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know that a ship appears small when seen from far away.”
“Certainly.”
“But as it approaches, it seems much larger.”
“Because we can see it more clearly.”
“Exactly. Now imagine a man who had never seen a ship approach. He might become convinced that ships are tiny.”
“Yes.”
“And he would be completely sincere in that belief.”
“But he would be mistaken.”
“Precisely.”
Pyrrho stopped and looked at the young man.
“The problem is not error.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. Everyone makes mistakes.”
“Then what is the problem?”
“The certainty with which we defend our mistakes.”
Nicarcus fell silent in thought.
The group climbed a small rise overlooking the plain. The last light of day colored the sky.
“Look over there,” said Pyrrho, pointing toward the horizon.
“What am I supposed to see?”
“What shape is the earth?”
“Flat, from here.”
“And yet some people claim that it is not.”
“That’s true.”
“Who is right?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is an excellent answer.”
Nicarcus smiled.
“It doesn’t sound like a very impressive answer.”
“It is more impressive than you think.”
“Why?”
“Because it recognizes the limits of your knowledge.”
The young man reflected for a moment.
“Master, I have the impression that you want to replace certainty with doubt.”
Pyrrho shook his head.
“No. That would be the same mistake under a different name.”
“Explain.”
“If I were to say that one must always doubt everything, I would simply be proclaiming another absolute truth.”
“I see.”
“I do not teach the worship of doubt. I teach caution in judgment.”
The evening breeze began to move through the olive trees.
For a moment no one spoke. Then Nicarcus asked another question.
“Why do people love certainty so much?”
Pyrrho smiled.
“For the same reason children love stories with simple endings.”
“Why?”
“Because uncertainty is exhausting.”
“And certainty is comforting.”
“Exactly.”
By now it was nearly dark, and the first stars had begun to appear.
Nicarcus looked up at the sky.
“Pyrrho, do you think we will ever know the truth?”
The philosopher remained silent for a moment.
“I don’t know.”
“You truly don’t know?”
“I truly don’t.”
“And that doesn’t trouble you?”
Pyrrho looked at a star shining above the hills.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I gave up long ago expecting the universe to provide answers it may not be willing to give.”
The young man reflected for a long time.
“So wisdom consists in accepting ignorance?”
“No.”
“Then what does it consist in?” Nicarcus asked.
Pyrrho resumed walking.
“Perhaps it consists in continuing the search without turning every discovery into a dogma.”
“Like a traveler?”
“Exactly.”
“A traveler who does not mistake a stop along the road for the destination.”
Pyrrho nodded approvingly.
“You have learned something today.”
“I think I have.”
“What?”
Nicarcus looked at the path disappearing into the darkness.
“That truth is not something to possess.”
“Then what is it?”
The young man answered:
“Perhaps it is something that deserves respect precisely because we can never be completely certain that we have reached it.”
Pyrrho did not reply. But from the way he smiled, Nicarcus understood that this was probably the best answer he would ever receive.
Nessun commento:
Posta un commento
Esprimi il tuo pensiero