That was the major question asked during the Watergate investigation. It was posed to President Richard Nixon. If he didn’t know anything about the Watergate conspiracy until much later, then he was just like us—surprised, removed. If he knew something earlier, then he was culpable, and possibly guilty. We never quite got the answer. Maybe it was lost in the infamous 18-minute gap on the White House tapes. Even now, the question resurfaces in times of crisis, directed at powerful people: What did you know, and when did you know it?
The Squishiness of Knowing
Often the response is something like: “Well… what does ‘knowing’ mean, really?” As if uncertainty could serve as a defense. At first glance, “knowing” feels like the realm of certainty. Once known, always known. But science reminds us: Things once known can be known differently later. That’s not just unsettling—it’s structurally threatening. If your house is built on knowledge, and the knowledge shifts, so does your foundation.
The Hedge of Humility
Maybe all future statements of knowing should come with a disclaimer: “On the basis of current information, I believe this about that. In my humble opinion.” It sounds too politically correct. Too soft. Why can’t we just say what is? Rocks are not alive. They don’t think. And they certainly don’t speak. Right? Well…
When the Rocks Float
Not all geologists might agree—completely. More knowledge chips away at basic certainties. Take pumice. It’s volcanic rock filled with air. So light, it can float. So light, it can form “clouds” of rock— ejected into the air during an eruption, drifting for miles before settling to the ground. So yes: Clouds made of rock exist. What does that mean for what we “know”? Does every strange phrase now carry the potential for truth? That’s a lot of phrases to test.
Certainty and Subjectivity
I think it’s useful to admit that certainty is often subjective. That admission may weaken the foundations of “knowing”— but it also frees us to wonder. To hold knowledge gently. To make room for the surprising. To allow the miraculous.
Final Thought
Maybe the erosion of certainty doesn’t mean the end of knowledge— but the beginning of a better kind. One that lives in both realism and reverence. And that, I believe, is a good thing.
A Work Progressing 