Reductio ad Absurdum

Words are molecules. They expound, confound and often explode. Ever since Einstein, man has been splitting the atom and splitting the hairs of words to the limits of the absurd.

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The other night my friend Bill, a hair-splitting articulate attorney, and I sit together at the season’s opening performance of the Coastal Symphony of Georgia. We whisper during the last movement of Les Preludes by Franz Liszt, attempting to comprehend the profundity of his music.

The program description of the piece reads: “Liszt is considered to be the virtual inventor of the symphonic poem where a nonmusical source provides a narrative foundation for a single-movement orchestral work.” Say what? Dilbert is more concise than this.

We have our several opinions. He argues that the word, ‘nonmusical’ is a misprint. It should be ‘nonsensical.’ Says it makes the sentence intelligible.

He asks my thoughts. I hesitate, then tell him I think it’s some sort of a secret code, perhaps meaning that no one in the orchestra uses deodorant. Both arguments, reductio ad absurdum. Neither can be disproved.

At home I sit. I read. I think. Not always a good thing to think too much. It might form a hypothesis, which might lead to a conclusion. And that’s the beginning of woes.

Conclusions beg for expression. Words attempt to do this. You might be tempted to express your current brain flash to someone, like a spouse. Mistake. They will take the germ of your thought and split its atom into shreds of differing opinion. Whereupon you may appear more stupid than you really are by having expressed the half-baked, caffeine-induced mental flush.

“Show me the evidence,” they will say. You suddenly find yourself leaning on a weak reed. You’ll be caught flat-footed, your argument becoming a house of cards. You’ll teeter on a “narrative foundation” just like Liszt. Without empirical evidence, you will instantly become a “single-movement orchestral work.” You will slink away in shame, licking your wounds from the lashes of refutation.

Contrary to common opinion, hard evidence is not found from the theses of scientists, many of whom have bad hair and don’t use deodorant. Like Liszt, they claim to be “the virtual inventor” of incomprehensible things. They make up words, like quarks, and assign them meanings. Imagine a romantic evening with a scientist discussing genomic theory. Horrors! More entertaining evidence can be exhumed from the utterances of preachers, politicians and lawyers.

Preachers, unlike lawyers, tend to pontificate in generalities. They attempt to prove their theories by mental suggestion, word pictures and fantastic recitals of oral historical references. You can walk on water, they say, and turn stones to bread if only you believe. Incomprehensible. But then, seeing is not believing…believing is seeing. Get it?

They will strive to convince you that the world’s gonna soon collapse, roll up like a scroll and melt in a fervent heat. But that dog won’t hunt because it’s too phantasmagoric to comprehend. You might relate to certain aspects of collapse, like the meltdown of your stock portfolio or when the foreclosure writ was nailed to your front door. Who can rebut experiential evidence?

Politicians are master truth twisters and inveterate prevaricators. Verity is not in their vocabulary. They’re blowhards, hurling great swelling words into the universe…words full of sound and fury, words signifying nothing, words that beguile the simple-minded, words that sow promises in the wind that reap the whirlwind.

Lawyers are demonically skillful in weaving words down to senseless nuance, especially with matters of money. Recently a slick one attacked the manufacturer of basketball goals who had advertised, ‘Made in America.’

The product was actually constructed in America, except for several rivets that came from China. Gotcha. False advertising. A miniscule technicality. A magnanimous verdict. The reward? Legal fees in millions. Face it, obesity is the only actual product ‘Made in America.’ Incontrovertible!

As the slickest of all lawyers has instructed us, the word ‘is’ has at least two definitions. It can mean in the ‘present moment,’ or, if it suits the ruse, something occurring but not necessarily in the present moment. It is what it is. Both are irrefutable. Reductio ad absurdum.

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Satis verborum…enough is enough. Stanley slings the euphemistic cow chip straight out: “Sometimes mud gives the illusion of depth.” Indisputable!

Bud Hearn
October 3, 2014