Me again
Mastering paradox is a sign of fine intelligence for the educated but looks silly to the stupid. What they do not understand is valueless idiocy to them. Better avoid being subtle with the dumb, thy could hurt you.
This reminds me of a story:
The new market-street in Samarkand was as rich as you can imagine a place where they piled up and sold the incredible loot of Timur's conquests.
In his magnanimity, the Emir had drawn a straight line across the town, side to side. He ordered all houses thrown down and replaced within twenty days by an endless row of fountains and arched shops, each with the same white earthenware bench in front and the same two chambers, front and back.
Inside the shops one could see magnificent goods that ranged from the finest cotton to precious silks, elegant lambs-wool hats to chiselled stone. There was paper, porcelain, enchanting perfumes, carpets, pearls and spices, more carpets, musk, halva! In some shops one could just glimpse gold jewellery hammered as thin and fine as a feather. Others boldly displayed weapons of all the kinds desired, or slaves from the graceful dancer to the solid eunuch. It was an endless diversity, enough to make even Ali Baba dizzy like a cat in a butchery.
Now all this abundance happens to concern us because one day, Nasreddin the Mullah stepped in through the fly-curtain of one of those carpet shops.
A plump merchant, all smiles from the top of his silken turban to the tips of the embroidered slippers rushed to greet him, full of love for the new client.
Nasreddin observed for a moment the efforts of the salesman and then asked with curiosity:
"Did you see me coming in?"
"Yes esteemed effendi, I certainly did, ready to serve you, effendi."
"And do you know me?"
The salesman looked at him courteously:
"No, effendi, I'm afraid I do not."
"Then," said Hoca "how do you know it's me?"
And he left.
Mastering paradox is a sign of fine intelligence for the educated but looks silly to the stupid. What they do not understand is valueless idiocy to them. Better avoid being subtle with the dumb, thy could hurt you.
This reminds me of a story:
The new market-street in Samarkand was as rich as you can imagine a place where they piled up and sold the incredible loot of Timur's conquests.
In his magnanimity, the Emir had drawn a straight line across the town, side to side. He ordered all houses thrown down and replaced within twenty days by an endless row of fountains and arched shops, each with the same white earthenware bench in front and the same two chambers, front and back.
Inside the shops one could see magnificent goods that ranged from the finest cotton to precious silks, elegant lambs-wool hats to chiselled stone. There was paper, porcelain, enchanting perfumes, carpets, pearls and spices, more carpets, musk, halva! In some shops one could just glimpse gold jewellery hammered as thin and fine as a feather. Others boldly displayed weapons of all the kinds desired, or slaves from the graceful dancer to the solid eunuch. It was an endless diversity, enough to make even Ali Baba dizzy like a cat in a butchery.
Now all this abundance happens to concern us because one day, Nasreddin the Mullah stepped in through the fly-curtain of one of those carpet shops.
A plump merchant, all smiles from the top of his silken turban to the tips of the embroidered slippers rushed to greet him, full of love for the new client.
Nasreddin observed for a moment the efforts of the salesman and then asked with curiosity:
"Did you see me coming in?"
"Yes esteemed effendi, I certainly did, ready to serve you, effendi."
"And do you know me?"
The salesman looked at him courteously:
"No, effendi, I'm afraid I do not."
"Then," said Hoca "how do you know it's me?"
And he left.
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