The Songbird's Song
It is the man who doesn't know who searches. The man who doesn't have who grasps out and kills the thing.
It is man the homo sapien who must cut open the songbird to learn why it sings. He must know. He must know. He must grasp out to find out.
And so he “discovers” vocal cords—or whatever—”Ah,” he says, “I know how he sings—by these.” But yet he knew how before—by that. And still he does not know why. And a songbird is dead.
This is man as homo sapien. he doesn't know what life is (because he doesn't know how to know), and so he searches. And the search becomes more important than life itself, and is seen to transcend any single bit of life. And every search brings him farther from knowing and thirstier and thirstier for more search.
So that there is now a truth in paradox.
He who would know, shall never know.
He who searches shall never find but a necessity to search. He who grasps at things never will have them in his hands.
To know, you must cease trying to know; to own, cease trying to own.
To be a man, stop trying to be men.
The songbird's song is not for knowing, only to be heard.
The rule of life is not to construct rules: for to ritualize life is to kill it, or to turn away from it to something dogmatically not life. Just as when formulas and definitions and systems and rules are brought to the study of mathematics—suddenly you have ritualized it and no longer have it: instead of studying math you are now studying rules (or definitions or logos).
It is a popular game with us: to replace living things with rules.
He who would know will never know.
