I finally met the smartest man in the world today, after following his work for several years. He had formal training only in mathematics, but his wisdom spanned every academic field—the social sciences, the liberal arts, biology and physics and complex systems, moral philosophy: he was a student of life, and he was generous enough to share the fruits of his research with his followers in real time. He would often retread ground covered by other scholars, but his work brought to light fresh ideas because his perspective was at the same time personal and universal. With perfect self-awareness, he had the rare ability to transform his perception of things, to decode what he saw and heard and tasted through his imperfect senses without any loss of information. He was the ultimate tabula rasa, free from bias, a man who for all intents and purposes had fallen out of a coconut tree. Everything he read—and everything he experienced—could be processed through clear eyes and seen for what it really was.
And yet he was deeply humble. He often translated the works of others whom he revered as surpassing himself in expertise (along with his own commentary, of course, so that the masses might glean their true meaning). He struggled with a deep shame, in fact, because he knew he contributed so little in the grand scheme of things; he knew he was but a petty vessel for the knowledge he received from the universe. But I, for one, couldn’t help but jump at the chance to be in the presence of that vessel. When I heard he was in town I reached out via DM, asked if I could buy him a beverage of some sort (something without any mind-altering chemicals of course, lest I tarnish the only perfect window to the world), and to my surprise, he agreed within minutes.
He was off-putting in person. His eyes darted around my face, my body, never meeting my gaze. He was studying me! I basked in his scrutiny. To be seen and understood by him would legitimize me, make me real. I started with some small talk, but our conversation was awkward, stilted, until it shifted to the subject of himself. I learned he worked from home, had an ordinary job and hadn’t been promoted in some time, but he didn’t mind because it paid him well enough that he could spend the rest of his time thinking. He had many friends, despite his solitary lifestyle, he assured me—those who he met virtually through his teachings, fans like me, who sent him letters and questions and information they thought he might be interested to opine on. He cherished his faceless interactions with them, how easy it was to bond in the true way, over textual exchanges, compared to the constrained and awkward dance that was public social interaction.
He did have regular real-life contact with at least one person, though; as I’d already known, he was married. He loved his wife, idolized her— she was so much better than him, he always said. Unburdened by critical thought and the quest for perfection and enlightenment that ruled his life and his actions, she was unquestioning, confident and sure of herself. How lucky she was, to be satisfied so easily by her own opinions. How good she was!
“I can tell you’re not like that,” he said after he finished describing his wife. “No, you’re like me.” (What high praise! My jealousy turned to fluttering giddiness in my stomach.) I stared deeply at him, trying to communicate something, but if he understood my meaning he made no comment and continued speaking about himself and giving me advice. He had much of this to offer about my particular situation, about my career, my health, even my love life. I told him things I had hardly ever told anyone, things I needed help processing, things I needed an explanation for. And he spoke and spoke and spoke.
When the last call was called we were long done with our mocktails and I resisted the urge to invite him to come see my home and have another; it was obviously inappropriate, though he might have accepted. We paid for our own drinks, and he took a moment to exactly compute an eighteen-percent tip in his mind. He shook my hand—his was slightly sticky from his Shirley temple—for nearly a moment too long, and said goodbye, and that he was grateful to have made a new friend. My head buzzing with new insights, I thanked him and left, not to go to my car but to walk around the block and burn off some nervous energy. After a few turns he reappeared in my field of view, facing away from me, headed towards the train station. He was clearly lost in thought, and I watched as he walked face-first into a small older woman pushing a cart of groceries; he picked up her spilled things, apologized profusely, checked to make sure she was alright, and continued on his way without looking back.
Lizzie Kumar 