12.6.23

          Curious about curiosity?

            Me too. Its cause, duration, distribution, why some and not others, blessing or curse?

            Curiosity differs from intelligence. Some brains capable of prodigious calculations lapse into imperturbable apathy. I once met a respected brain surgeon whose sole interest, outside his profession, was Trivial Pursuit. A Do Not Disturb plaque dangled on the doorknob of his mind.

            Younger we’re likely to be more curious; we need to know so we can make our way. Babies wonder at their waggling toes. Kids are curious what grown-ups are up to. We explore the world to decide where to settle in.

            In many humans, curiosity shrivels as their need to know is met. In others, curiosity intensifies with years. I am much more curious now than I was at twenty. At twenty I was too busy pressing forward to pause. Aristotle said, “All persons by nature desire to know.” He was wrong. Many desire not to know. New information may disturb their complacency. What you don’t know, the adage goes, can’t hurt you. (Also wrong.)

            I am forever asking why, who knows why. Jane too. Younger, our careers justified our inquisitiveness. The business of journalism is finding out. Retired, we’re curious for the hell of it. We want to know because it’s fun. It’s our sport.

            Jane’s curiosity is more catholic than mine. Wherever her attention lights, she wants to know more – and more. My curiosity is finicky. I’ve no zest for science, technology, nature, economics. I shrug at the stars. But etymologies, history, culture, human nature? Let me have at ‘em! I dig them as puppy Henry digs this one section of my bathroom’s tiles – furiously. What are he – or I – searching for? Beats me.

            I revert frequently to the metaphor of coordinate points. Life is a transoceanic journey with no GPS. We must take readings to fathom where we are, tally our progress and distance to the far shore. Where am I going? How am I doing? Am I at home in my adventure or adrift? My writing serves me as a kind of captain’s log, syntax my sextant.

            My curiosity predictably gets tangled in abstractions. I’m guessing this is a uniquely human misfortune. We’re eager to know what things mean, whether our lives have significance. We may ridicule such speculations as nonsensical, absurd, yet we persist in them. I know perfectly well God didn’t visit me three years ago and I know He did. I know no life means anything sub specie aeternitatis (in eternity’s gaze) – and I’m not so sure.

            Puppy Henry is intensely curious. I’ve known no creature more wakeful (or woke perhaps). His nose, ears, eyes quiver, anxiously alert to his instant. He snuffles the dew-drenched lawn, zigzagging, in pursuit of what? He apparently limits his purview to the actual, here and now. He does not ask why.

            My curiosity soothes as an anodyne for despair. When I’m glum, nothing interests me. Existence is a pointless slog, why bother? I pick up books and dismiss them, dyspeptic. The stupid clock ticks. How soon might I permit myself a drink? I prod and chivvy myself, but it doesn’t help. These days Henry may whimper for a walk – a plea ignored at one’s peril. We walk. He gambols, leaps, yips. That helps.

            What’s eating me! My curiosity nibbles on this absence of curiosity. Is my condition biological or metaphysical, perceptual or existential? Opening a blank page, I quiz myself like a doctor diagnosing. Life might not mean anything, but words do. My curiosity diverts me from its cause. I’m happy finding out. And here we are.