Story: Curiosity

I used to be curious because I was not popular. If physical ineptness and social awkwardness were going to set me apart, then I was going to set myself apart and above on a pedestal of knowledge. If two bullies were going to chase me around the school after class, pin me down, and spit on my face, then I was going to wipe the spit off, go home, ace the next test, and smile savagely when they failed. If I could not ever master the art of kicking a stupid ball between two posts, then I was going to do everything I could to gain entrance to a place where that ability had no meaning.

It worked, too, for a time. In my early high school years, curiosity added muscle to my skinny frame, and inches to my diminutive height. I was bigger than I was, and I could not be hurt, because I was curious, and curious people live to inherit the earth when all others are gone. In my later high school years, I discovered that this was exactly true. My friends and I were respected; it was our time to laugh at those who had taunted us, because we were the ones who were predicted to soon have any place in the world at our fingertips. Curiosity had lit up our futures in brilliant paths. This was what my friends and I discussed, sitting around our boardgames and rolling the dice that had been given to us – our futures… and then we fell into silence for a few moments, and asked each other whether we wanted more soft drinks.

It was not until I was fifteen that I finally admitted to myself that curiosity was not the cause of my isolation, but only the means by which I could explain it. It was not until Tess Durbeyfield said to Angel Clare that “there is set down in some old book somebody just like me… your nature and your past doings have been just like thousands’ and thousands’, and your coming life and doings’ll be like thousands’ and thousands’” that I finally admitted I was so lonely that an outline of a person built out of words and pictures was more accessible than an actual person. I was not curious because I was unpopular. I want to know about things, places, and people that are extensions of myself. I want to know about things, places, and people that are not extensions of myself. I am curious because I want to be popular, even if by proxy.

But curiosity is not a tool I can so lightly use for my own service. The more I learn, the more disappointed in myself and angrier I become. It seems to me that insight should not be just beyond the graspings of my mind, and yet it so often is. I find myself standing so often at the foot of a mountain, trying to peer through the clouds to see the peak I know is there. The discovery of something that thrills me is always tainted by the quiet fury that it is something I should have been able to articulate as well, and yet could not, and perhaps would never have. Curiosity leads to discovery, but discovery is also the death of possibility.

And so it is today, for me. Curiosity is a daily struggle; knowledge is such an irrevocable process, and yet I have not faith in my own conclusions, and yet confirmation if it comes is both pleasing and distasteful because it means “I am one of a long row only”. Curiosity is an impossible conundrum, and it is easier not to be curious, because certainly life becomes a lot simpler.

But how can a person not be curious when he knows he is deliberately not being curious?