There is such endless fascination with knowing. We cannot be content without knowing what is happening elsewhere, about business that is transpiring, about lives in transition, about crime, about joys, about beginnings and ends. When Socrates said that the only thing he knew was that he knew nothing, though, what he was really saying was that those who held him captive knew less than that. And perhaps it is so, that the more we fill our heads with trivial details, the less we really know about what we really should know. For it was not that Socrates did not know his name, or where he lived, or that he loved his wife: what he realized is that all the truly important questions could never be answered. I can ask, “What is love?” and write a thousand poems that all answer truthfully about it, yet I will not have even scratched the surface. Thus, the wise man concedes to the mysterious.