Sometimes people ask me what the so-called “terror of knowledge” is, or at least they would if they were the sort of people I’d invent for just such a hypothetical scenario.
It’s a fair question, and one that deserves a reasoned answer.
So, since studies indicate that lessons are more easily absorbed when put into a memorable narrative context, it feels appropriate to explain by storied example:
Let’s say you’re at a party, and you’ve had a few vodka tonics, as is customary in these situations. And then, as the conversation turns to music, you are compelled to bring up the song “Fly”, by Sugar Ray.
Now imagine, if you will, that no one seems to remember this song. Imagine that you are asked how it goes.
They ask you to sing it, and after a certain amount of demurral on your part, reluctantly, you agree.
It takes you a moment to remember how it starts.
“All around the world statues crumble for me/ who knows how long I’ve loved you…”
Which, in theory, should be enough to jumpstart the memories of the listeners.
But you don’t stop.
You keep singing.
And you are singing, and you are looking around the room, and everyone in earshot is staring right back. You can’t tell if their smiles indicate respect or derision, but you certainly have your suspicions.
And in this moment, which seems to stretch on into eternity, three incontrovertible facts dawn on you in rapid succession.
The first is that the friends that you cherish and think so kindly of have set you up.
The second, which comes with a sickening , is that you know all the words to “Fly” by Sugar Ray.
The third and final fact comes to you with a sickening finality in the moment when you realize beyond a shadow of a doubt that you’re too drunk to stop, and are utterly powerless to prevent yourself from singing the song “Fly” in its soul crushing entirety
This is the terror of knowledge.
Pryorball. 