Knowing about is not knowing. I can be an expert on honey without having tasted it. Thus: “Those who know do not speak.” “What do you read, my lord,” asked Polonius. “Words, words, words,” replied Hamlet, meaning nothing of value. Warhol dug into this with his famous rendering of a can of Campbell’s tomato soup. Krishnamurti: “The day you teach the child the name of the bird, the child will never see that bird again.” Overheard: “The guy’s a jerk.”
A mistake I learn from is not a mistake. I wouldn’t know that anger is a derangement and regret a waste of energy unless I’ve laid with both of them, known them under the covers. There are other ways to learn but none as terrifically good as mistakes.
If I do not know who I am, I’ll be exploited by rascals.
I can only know you to the extent that I know myself. Intimacy is rooted in self-knowledge. If I haven’t plumbed my depths, I’ll stay stuck at the level of form and flesh.
It’s what we don’t hear about that matters. It’s what we don’t know that matters most.