One up-and-coming sore-head confidently confided to moi that he considers the odds of ordinary people ever becoming “truly intelligent,” about the same as that of Sisyphus dreaming of downhill racing.
When it came to the exported expansion, and passionate proselytization of new knowledge, one rather self-contained chap said, “I am a missionary to myself.”
A plumber recently graced me with the following thought-faucet (sez he): “What is the most important call of words? Well, consider this: We would not have our modern storehouse of knowledge without books; we would not have books without titles, and, we would not have titles without prepositions – go figure.” (That’s what he sez, alright.)
When on a provocative and productive intellectual roll, this one guy would acknowledge his neural processors by referring to them as, “That Inner Gang Of Hot Shots.”
No matter the force of certainty, no matter the sincerity of purpose, and no matter even the validity of the words, saying you “see something” is never the same as seeing it.