We have a world aflame with the chatter and mile-a-minute passions of the Internet; access to technology that spans every imaginable medium; exposure to more people and more places than ever before; the fleet and evanescent flicker of thoughts and ideas uttered by those who are both anonymous and celebrated, top of mind and ushered into oblivion. Never has the challenge of integrating the thoughts and ideas of others been more overwhelming—or more imperative.
In view of these modern challenges, there is a matter in the whole frenzy that it bears emphasizing: it is worth being cautious about the nature of eloquence, expertise, and the appearance of intelligence. We are all subject to appearances and the nature of their obfuscations; we need not be their willing victims.
Watching an interview not too long ago with the late Christopher Hitchens, a man whose protean eloquence exemplifies this line of thinking about the deceptions of eloquence, I came to understand that much of the casual watching done on the Internet, on television, or on any other device or streaming platform where the average consumer enjoys their down time is based on giving attention to specialists. Naturally, in order to be on television or in an interview presented to the general public, these specialists are expected to have a demonstrable expertise—that is obvious enough, and most people would never argue otherwise.
But if these are people in the limelight, experts cast out of the darkness of anonymity and invited to speak in front of an audience of comparative ignoramuses in their field or specialization, these experts would seem more impressive than the reality of things would warrant. As an audience unexposed to the more numerous instances in which this so-called expert is no longer an expert but simply another person fumbling through the rote boredom of everyday life, we are utterly overcome by this show of brilliance, presented to the public for a few minutes of made-to-order expertise.
The more I understand about the nature of human limitations, the more ridiculous and implausible the idea that a person—a human being, at that—could possibly be intelligent, let alone brilliant. We are all cosmic idiots, playing at intelligence and self-awareness like children who assign themselves royal titles in a sandbox. A bright or intelligent person is just bright or intelligent for a moment before fading once more into the confusion and mundanity of daily existence. There is much to admire in the consistency of the imbecile.
An upside remains, of course: if you are unimpressive by dint of being human, it is good to remember that everyone else is, too. In the end, even eloquence itself is just a game. If only we could all be effective players.
