God exists wherever He is Allowed to enter.
(The Alchemist)
Today, while browsing the electronic pages of the New York Times, I found this interesting editorial
The Cost of Smarts
By Verlyn Klinkenborg
Research on animal intelligence always makes me wonder just how smart humans are. Consider the fruit-fly experiments described in Carl Zimmer’s piece in the Science Times on Tuesday. Fruit flies who were taught to be smarter than the average fruit fly tended to live shorter lives. This suggests that dimmer bulbs burn longer, that there is an advantage in not being too terrifically bright.
Intelligence, it turns out, is a high-priced option. It takes more upkeep, burns more fuel and is slow off the starting line because it depends on learning — a gradual process — instead of instinct. Plenty of other species are able to learn, and one of the things they’ve apparently learned is when to stop.
Is there an adaptive value to limited intelligence? That’s the question behind this new research. I like it. Instead of casting a wistful glance backward at all the species we’ve left in the dust I.Q.-wise, it implicitly asks what the real costs of our own intelligence might be. This is on the mind of every animal I’ve ever met.
Every chicken that looks at you sideways — which is how they all look at you — is really saying what Thoreau said less succinctly: you are endeavoring to solve the problem of a livelihood by a formula more complicated than the problem itself. Thoreau himself would not dispute that he was hoping to recover the chicken’s point of view. He went to Walden Pond “to remember well his ignorance.”
Research on animal intelligence also makes me wonder what experiments animals would perform on humans if they had the chance. Every cat with an owner, for instance, is running a small-scale study in operant conditioning. I believe that if animals ran the labs, they would test us to determine the limits of our patience, our faithfulness, our memory for terrain. They would try to decide what intelligence in humans is really for, not merely how much of it there is. Above all, they would hope to study a fundamental question: Are humans actually aware of the world they live in? So far the results are inconclusive.
This editorial refers to the following article : Lots of Animals Learn, but Smarter Isn’t Better
- I have always been fascinated by the story of the Sibylline Books - I commented to Mônica, my friend and literary agent, as we drove to Portugal. - One must make the most of opportunities, or they are lost forever.
The Sibyls were sorcerers capable of seeing into the future and lived in ancient Rome. One day, one of them went to the Emperor Tiberius’s palace with nine books; she said that they contained the future of the Empire, and demanded ten talents of gold in exchange for the texts. Tiberius considered the price exorbitant and refused to buy them.
The Sibyl left, burned three books and returned to Tiberius with the remaining six: “these cost the same ten talents of gold,” she said. Tiberius laughed and sent her away; how could she possibly be so bold as to sell six books for the same price as nine?
The Sibyl burned three more books and returned to Tiberius with the last three volumes: “they cost the same ten talents of gold”. Intrigued, Tiberius ended up buying the three volumes, and could only read a small portion of the future.
Just as I was finishing the story, I realized that we were passing through Ciudad Rodrigo, on the frontier between Spain and Portugal. There, four years earlier, I had been offered a book, but hadn’t bought it.
- Let’s stop. I think the fact that I remembered the Sibylline Books was a sign for me to correct a past mistake.
During my first author tour to promote my books in Europe, I had decided to have lunch in that town. Afterwards, I went to visit the cathedral, where I met a priest. “See how the afternoon sun makes everything more beautiful in here,” he said. I liked this comment, we talked a little, and he showed me around the altars, cloisters, and courtyards of the temple. In the end, he offered me a book he had written about the church; but I did not wish to buy it. After I left, I felt guilty; I am a writer, and was in Europe trying to sell my work - why not buy the priest’s book, out of solidarity? But then I completely forgot the episode. Until now.
I stopped the car; Mônica and I walked to the square facing the church, where a woman was gazing up into the sky.
- Good afternoon. - I’ve come to see a priest who wrote a book about this church.
- The priest, whose name was Stanislau, died a year ago - she answered.
I felt deeply saddened. Why had I not given Father Stanislau the same joy I felt whenever I saw someone with one of my books?
- He was one of the kindest men I have ever met - continued the woman.- He came from a humble family, but became a specialist in archeology; he helped my son obtain a college grant.
I told her what I was doing there.
- There’s no need to feel guilty, my son - she said. - Go and visit the cathedral again.
I thought this must be a sign, and did as she said. There was just one priest in the confession booth, awaiting the faithful, although there were none just then. I went over to him; the priest gestured for me to kneel down, but I interrupted him.
- I don’t want to make a confession. I just came to buy a book about this church, written by a man named Stanislau.
The priest’s eyes glinted. He came out of the confession booth and returned a few minutes later with a copy of the book.
- How marvelous of you to have come especially for that! - he said. - I am Father Stanislau’s brother, and this fills me with pride! He must be in heaven, content at seeing his work considered so important!
Among all the priests there, I happened to have run into Stanislau’s brother. I paid for the book, thanked him and he embraced me. Just as I was leaving, I heard his voice.
- See how the afternoon sun makes everything more beautiful in here! - he said.
They were the same words Father Stanislau had spoken to me four years earlier. In life, there is always a second chance.
What is your greatest sin?
If this can be a sin, I am like a volcano; sometimes very calm, sometimes with an explosion that can be heard very far away.
