On a delightful blog (http://savageminds.org), new contributor Anru Lee asks a question to which I reply. Any and all comments are welcome. ========== Anru asks, at what point can I claim that I have a full understanding of the subway system in Taipei—or Kaohsiung? The answer is simple—Never. In an infinitely interesting universe there is always another angle, another set of questions to be asked. Think how boring it would be otherwise! It is better, I believe, to reframe the question as, "At what point do I have enough to say that I have made a significant addition to understanding whatever it is that I have chosen to study?" I often begin my classes by noting to my students that to claim understanding we often say that we have created a picture of something. But what kind of picture is it? For elementary subjects in well-defined fields, we assume that the picture is like a jigsaw puzzle. The image is predefined, the number of pieces is finite, it is easy to see if the picture is complete or not and, if not, how much remains to be done. This picture is very convenient for teachers since it facilitates grading. Consider, however, an artist standing in front of a blank canvas, trying to produce a painting, a nude perhaps, a vase full of sunflowers, or a pond filled with waterlilies, or the sea as dawn breaks in the middle of a storm. It isn't just that the subjects differ, the artist may be a Michaelangelo, a Van Gogh, a Manet, or a Turner. The artist might also be a Picasso or Klee (times change) or (place changes, too) a Hokusai or someone with an unpronounceable name from someplace we know nothing about. The result will be very different, depending on the artist as well as the subject. The artist may always wonder, is the painting good enough? Will the critics or potential buyers see it as bad, mediocre, good or insanely great? Will one more brushstroke or some other modification make it even better? From my work in advertising, I suspect that one of two things happens. There may be a magic moment, a sudden feeling of wholeness and completion and a sense that any further change will destroy what has been discovered. There may also be a deadline, so that pressure builds to say, "Good enough" (even if the result has flaws). Neither, however, should be considered the last word, the definitive answer. I often conclude this riff by pointing to Claude Levi-Strauss's description in the "Overture" to The Raw and the Cooked. In a wonderful image he compares the creation of knowledge to the formation of a galaxy from a cloud of gas and dust. As the cloud condenses and begins to spin, the first stars form toward the center. As time goes on more and more stars appear. And, yes, I say to myself, it isn't at all likely that all of the gas and dust will be turned into stars. As new stars form toward the edges, old ones are dying at the center. Some will collapse and explode into novas, some will fade into red dwarfs, some will disappear into black holes. The learning never stops. Definitive? No way. ====== John Mc