As Featured in Under the Wing
A Short Story by O.G. Rose
My name is Ludwig, Mr. Ludwig, not that you actually know that or if the words I use mean what you think they mean, because all the dictionaries and everyone who has ever used those words, including me, could be mistaken. Forgive me, I’m terrible at introductions. Perhaps intentionally? Perhaps not. Life you know: always a perhaps. Tomorrow I will begin speaking to blokes and lads on the cobble street to help them understand how little they know, not that I know people will necessarily listen even if they act rapt. I think I’ll wear this top hat with my black tux and vest, though I can’t say for sure that I won’t change my mind. Given that tomorrow happens. Which it might. I should bring a cane. Support, you know.
Your name? Yes, of course, I forgot: I’m practicing in a mirror, assuming I exist. And perhaps there is indeed someone here talking in this vest, but is it me? If there is no me, no one will be able to speak with me tomorrow, though I suppose if I stepped in front of people and flapped my arms, there would be a chance that my movements would cause them to realize the depths of their ignorance, regardless the status of my existence. It’s possible, certainly, and if they claim not to understand, they very well might be lying.
Drops of rain are falling in London, though you don’t know that for sure unless you’re a local, for all the stations which have informed you of London’s weather could be tricksters. Absurd, yes, probably, and you very well may think you know that you understand how little you can be certain about, but I submit to you that you have no idea. You’re certain that you’re certain about how uncertain life is, but you’re not. Of course you’re not. You’re listening to me rather than curled up in a ball screaming. Have you ever met the Queen? Yes, yes, someone surely has met the Queen, and your certainty is grounded in that person, but how do you know that the reporter isn’t lying? Perhaps the bloke killed the Queen and is trying to cover it up with posers like those doubles of Saddam Hussain? But sources you trust believe she exists? You mean to say you are certain because others believe? Ah, a good cane.
Tell me, have you ever measured the age of the earth? Of course not, you — I — wouldn’t even know where to begin. Gone off and studied the evidence for quantum mechanics with your own eyes? Reading about it won’t cut it, I fear. Me? Honestly can’t make it to the bus without getting lost. But who’s more foolish? The man who holds a reasonable doubt about what he knows or the man who doesn’t? “Reasonable doubt” — what a splendid idea! No, it’s terrible: there’s always room for reasonable doubt. And a “reasonable doubt” to one is unreasonable to another. I have “reasonable doubt” that the world is actually so-and-so years old because I’ve never studied it myself, and then I’m justified to be skeptical due to my laziness, unprofessionalism — the power is mine. But if I questioned the age of the Earth, I’d be an outcast. A fool. Telling a tale told by an idiot that only idiots wanted to hear. And fittingly so, right old chap? Ah yes, but aren’t we to fight for truth even if we are the only ones standing? That’s what all the great books say, yes. Socrates died for truth, like we should — learned that at Oxford. Hail the Queen! But my good man, what do you stand up for that no one else is standing for other than what you believe people should have a “reasonable doubt” is true? And seeing how little we can know, there’s surely a lot out there to be stood up for that no one else will defend. Madness, for example: are you sure it’s not best?
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For the rest of the story, please see Under the Wing by O.G. Rose, available on Amazon in both Paperback and Kindle.
