I’m sitting here in an empty hall. The inspiration to play the piano that is present has ceased. More to the point, probably my ability to do anything more of interest has ceased.
Suddenly, the words from that John Keats poem, I think it was ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ but I may be wrong on that, have entered my mind (my mum would be so proud).
“Beauty is truth and truth, truth beauty – that is all.
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”
(Apologies to all those who are literate if I’ve massacred that from my faulty memory.)
But is truth beautiful?
I know as someone with a desire for truth I romanticize it as beautiful but I think in many cases it is ugly stark and often absurd. It is lacking in subtlety, reflection and continuance. So why do I romanticize it? Because as a human I have mistook the object of a search, the easily graspable endpoint of a journey, the objects and status possessions linked with higher concepts beyond simple explanation and elevated it, utilizing the same weakness that advertisers use to sell Cola or a car, above the more indefinable aspects of true life.
So while think that truth is not beautiful, I think that wisdom is. Wisdom, for me, is the practical and harmonious outflowing of truth. I also think that it is the search, desire, journey for truth that is beautiful.
But then again, maybe that journey itself is an act of wisdom (truth in practical and harmonious action).
Does that make sense to anyone else?
