There is no doubt that my commitment to the world of theory and literature has grown stronger; for that I am eternally grateful to my alma mater. There are times, however, like this, when I cannot help but liken such commitment with one's metamorphosis from a helpless, handicapped fledgling to a beast that now flexes its muscles, limbs and dirty claws to get at anything with half a face on. After all, insight, like knowledge, is useless without direction. The fledgling, under the banner of education, spends years practicing the art of scraping off, as cleanly and mockingly as possible, that face of anything that professes to be true, right or genuine. What graduates is a creature even more resourced at counter-arguing itself.
That I had no strong sense of morality as a fledgling is true; that intellectual curiosity fed into that rejection of morality, of definite rights and wrongs, is also true. In a world where there are perspectives more than there are truths, I have a Masters degree in affirming the inauthenticity of all assertions, all attempts at ideological monopoly. Six months after handing in my final dissertation, I am angry, faithless, and indignant, more so because, in order to pay my bills, I will probably sell out that anger, faithlessness and indignation to work within an economic system I deplore, and in ten years' time end up bearing a collar badge for the National Front Party.
I don't think the scientists are the atheistic ones.