Evening star., 1923-12-12
IGNORANCE AS
A FINE ART
BY DIR. FRANK CRANE.

Instead of being always a calamity.
Ignorance is sometimes the source
or power, of usefulness and happi-
ness.
1t is the one with will power
enough to refuse to know certain
things that can know accurately GER
tain other things. No boy can be Il
student who cannot concentrate his
mind on tho book before him and
smut the door OF his attention to
the conversation going on about him.
III the cook knows what Is going
on i'll the parlor, If she is aware Of
what her neighbors across the way
are up to, and if she watches the
parade in the street, she is poor
cook and will probably burn the
roast.
This is the day of specialists. A
specialist is one who does not know
the vast areas of general practice.
he adVerttses his ignorance. When
one does that we believe he knows
accurately his little island.
Prlvate Mulvaney, according to
hipling, thus tells the story OF the
taking of Lungtungpen: "'Tis the
bhoys-the raw bhoys that don't
know fwat bullet names. an wudn't
care II they did-thet do the wurrk.
Wud fifty seasoned sodgers have
taken Lungtungpen in the dharll thet
way? Ma! They'd know the risk av
But the three-year-olds know little
an care less; an where there's no
fear there's no danger"
Who shall say how many a hero
mas ieaped to fame simply because
he didn't have sense enough to get
scared?
In the most intimate relations Of
life. how valuable is ignorance! No
one with sharp eyes can get along
with children. The wise mother
KNOWS when to turn her back, and
how TO play deaf and blind. Believe
II, she will see more in the long run
than the mother that is too 6bserv-
ing. One is never going to see much
that Is worth seeing in this life, un-
til one learns how and when to shut
If husband and wife are going to
remain in love they will need a good
deal Of willful blindness. In fact,
the more they allow their fault
noticing faculty to atrophy the hap
pier they will be, because then they
will see those other things that
really count. Those see the most
who look the other way. At least
when you make It hearts"
The monk in his cell is not alto
gether to be pitied. Possibly he is
overriding it: but we might learn
from him that saving art Of choosing
our own forld, of creating our own
little autocosm. whittier to take ref
use on dark days. No one knows the
world Alright who does not know
how to leave it upon occasion.
The power Of the poet over us is
due TO his proud ignorance of the
petty perplexities that bother us.
Our souls are drowned in the rattle
of pots and kettles, bales and boxes.
the crash OF affairs, and the din of
tongues. If the poet knows enough
to get his hair cut he could not
speak to US. He can see only a
peach blossom in the sunshine. hear
detect only tender heart swelling
in a bashful breast, perceive only one
great white ideal where we see the
confusion of war, and penetrate the
fiuX of things that distract US and
find golden purpose.
And in the humble business of
living. and being happy, and doing
our daily work. the secret is the
same; IT is blessed. wisely chosen ig-
norance. We need the blind courage
Of the raw recruits at Lungtungpen,
the narrow application Of the special
ist. the oblivious vision of the poet.
There are. SO many things that
don't matter.
Others may say your old mother is
blind. doting, and foolish. She some
how never sees those faults every
which doubtless exist. But deep in
your heart you have a notion that.
after all, her eyes. with their divine
blind spots. see the things in you
that need seeing. Love knows what
a fine, true art is ignorance.