A follow-up reflection
First, I want to think about how we know things— not just the what, but the how. Are there things we know instinctively? Yes—we breathe without instruction. We flinch. We flee. We survive. But that kind of knowledge—embodied, reactive— is not what I’m talking about. I’m interested in gained knowledge: the kind that exists outside the body and enters through our senses. It arrives, we process it, and maybe—just maybe—we act on it.
The Senses as Portals
We see, we hear, we touch, we smell, we taste. Smell, honestly, gets the least respect. Taste follows close behind. (Though I admit—I’ve wondered what the Mona Lisa might taste like.) So that leaves sight, touch, and hearing— the primary channels for building knowledge. At first, this knowledge is observational. We watch. We listen. We notice. That gets us somewhere. But then we want more.
So we build experiments. We drop feathers and cannonballs. We take clocks apart. We craft microscopes and telescopes to go further than nature allows. At this stage, ethics hasn’t really entered the equation. We’re just extending our senses. Unless, of course, you’re Galileo. Then knowledge itself becomes a threat.
When Knowing Crosses a Line
Fast forward a few centuries. World War II. The Nazis murder millions. And they experiment on hundreds of thousands. They write it all down.nHow much cold can a body take?nWhat happens when you remove organs—while someone is still alive?nWhat are the limits of a drug, if you don’t stop administering it? When the Allies find the records, a debate begins:nShould we use this data? Some say: It honors the victims. Others: It doesn’t matter—knowledge is knowledge.nStill others: It matters how we come to know. The real question becomes: At what cost?
The Case of Szukalski
This brings me back to Stanisław Szukalski, the Polish sculptor I wrote about earlier. When asked how he learned anatomy, he said: “From my father.” And he meant it literally. After his father died, Szukalski took the body from the morgue and dissected it himself, alone in his studio. He didn’t kill him—but was he waiting? Could he have learned anatomy another way? Yes. Other artists did. Did that experience set him on a different path— one marked by brilliance, but also deep psychological fracture? Maybe.
Knowledge That Damages the Knower
There are many manufactured learning experiences that change people forever. Most come with ethical cost. What if a scientist could solve the problem of serial mass murder? All it would take is access to full biometric data and becoming a serial mass murderer for a time. The outcome? Millions saved. The price? A soul, corrupted for a cause. Sound extreme? Maybe. But history is filled with versions of this choice— where the instrument of knowledge becomes complicit in suffering.
The Moral Line
This is what I’ve come to: A moral choice is never based on outcome. Not on efficiency. Not on potential good. Not even on how many lives might be saved. A moral choice is based on the value of the act itself. On whether it is good to do. Not whether it might be good after. We are always learning. But not all knowledge should be known. And not all knowing leaves the knower untouched. Sometimes the act of knowing costs too much. And we must say: No, not this way. Not at this price.
