The capacity of the human intellect and its consequences have been a disaster for the human race

Often we see intellectuals self-aggrandizing and belittling others for being beneath them, as a human
might feel vindictive pleasure from stomping on a cockroach. We see them in their great curiosity
constantly asking and answering questions and declaring that this is the way of life, this is what it means
to be human. It rarely, if ever, dawns on them that the mere pursuit of knowledge is in itself dogmatic.
Why pursue knowledge? “Well, of course, it is for the pleasure of knowing, the most delectable of
pleasures.” Already we see here a major flaw in judgment. If the reason for the pursuit of knowledge is
pleasure, then why not have yourself a nice pint of beer? If the pursuit of knowledge is masturbatory in
nature, why not just masturbate? If bliss is the goal of knowledge, and ignorance is bliss, then why not
be ignorant?

How could it ever be smart to feel the pleasure that you feel from squishing a cockroach under your
boot? Do you think the cockroach cared? Did you drive cockroaches extinct? When you go to work in the
morning, do the cockroaches weep in your absence? When you come home, and you turn off the lights,
and you get in bed, and you put one arm over your eyes and you think about how Suzy rejected you in
5th grade, do they do the same? When you realize that all your knowledge on a particular subject
amounts to nothing in the sea of information that exists about it, do the cockroaches stop in shock and
terror from eating the crumbs of bread that you swept from the counter and onto the carpet?

You know what the cockroaches do while you think about the meaninglessness of life? They fornicate
and eat. And they think about how they want to do it all over again. And when the fruits of man lay the
apartment building to waste, and of the human there remains nothing but ashes, you know what the
cockroaches do? They do it all over again. How can one consider that the human is in a favorable
condition? How can the human ever think that when he stepped on that cockroach, that he was
victorious, that he did something meaningful? He can’t, because he never did. He never thought about
it. In that moment, with all his triumphant intellect, he was finally stupid. He didn’t think about whether
the cockroach cared, or wept, or stopped eating. He killed. He felt good. He was savage. He took a
being’s life, the little it had to live, and shattered it into pieces so tiny that they spilled all over the floor
in unrecognizable shapes, never to be put back together the same for the rest of eternity. And there’s
beauty in that, is there not? If being stupid, and dumb, and ignorant feeds someone, if it makes one
beautiful and happy, and passes on their beauty along onto their offspring, then make me stupid.