Who Are the Majority of Scientists? by Erik Knutsen

The majority of scientists convened a convention to converse. The majority of the majority of scientists attended. The issue discussed was the nature of the authority of the majority of scientists. It seemed imperative to address the increasing number of appeals made in their name. The room fell silent, as the head scientist emerged in his ceremonial vestments. The spotlight reflected off his starch white lab coat, creating a retinal after-image. He laid out Galileo’s telescope and Marie Curie’s bunsen burner on the podium before him. The room stood in awe and reverence of the Concrete Realities. Then the oath was recited, each member recommitting themselves to seek to discover all that is knowable, to rely only on empirical truth, and to disavow all mystical representations. “There is the fact. On the fact we rely,” they chanted. The HS spoke over the noise. He introduced the evening’s issue and the prominent related questions: On what level can an appeal to the majority of scientists be considered an evidence of veracity? When should the majority of scientists honour such appeals? How can the majority of scientists reach a consensus on what the majority of scientists believe? Each question was wrangled back and forth. Learned debate went on for hours, with evidence, charts, diagrams, equations and photographs. After all sides made their case, their was a vote. The majority won. The outcomes of the convention were published in newspapers worldwide. The average reader asked himself , “Who are the majority of scientists?”

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The Man Without a Muse by Erik Knutsen

Exiled in Paris, Meriwether Gorse, a romantic vagabond, whose self-importance grossly outweighed his accomplishment, began the theoretical obliteration of the muses. He intended to demonstrate that the forms of creation that they embodied were illusory. There was no Calliope from whose breast he could suckle inspiration; the mysteries hidden in literature and between a woman’s legs did not coincide. The essential difference of function between Meriwether’s movements of creation and that which he rebuked was a question of intaking versus outpouring; that which was freely given over against that which was coaxed out. As he wrote, the nine grew anxious. They could not afford Meriwether’s attack on the slender threads of devotion they yet had. In a brief, but heated, conclave it was determined that Erato would be sent to distract this man from his work. When she appeared to him in all her glory, he addressed her with contempt. “I thought one of you might try to interfere.” “Meriwether Gorse do not speak to me so disdainfully. I am not a mortal to be disregarded, not when I bring pleasures you cannot imagine.” “Don’t speak to me of your pleasures. I cannot take them; I have found the higher. With one four letter word I can destroy you. The similarity it has to what you offer is merely coincidence. There never have been muses.” Erato left defeated. Melpomene thought to do better, but it was too late. A thought was born, the knife on which inspirations balance.

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The Message Falls Flat by Erik Knutsen

“It was an amusing sign, but what did he want?” Gerald asked. Everard looked back at the man clothed in dirt with distaste. The grime-arousing man began to chortle, his teeth waggling like alabaster seen through a river’s flow of urine. “They don’t know what he wants. Har-ha-hech!” He waddled up to Everard and Gerald as they turned to face him. Everard’s eyes, uncertain, flitted towards Gerald whose face was like a dark continent unwilling to yield its secrets. The man of sallow cheeks, screaming as if his fingernails were being removed whole, flung slather, “I want a God to redeem me, huh?” Gerald’s face began to emerge like the Sun from behind a cloud, “Then you would hear of our Lord Jesus.” Now, the man squealed, “Shut up!” Timid Everard backed a step away, too scared to run or to stay. “I don’t want to hear of that pissant. Just give me something to lave my aching, give me something to soothe my parched throat. Don’t pinch your pennies too tightly. I’m a beggar, but I’m a man, too. Allow me the decency to escape, even temporarily, from all this.” He waved a dismissive hand, speaking with an addict’s blunt honesty. Everard spoke up hastily, “We can’t help you with that, sir. Gerald, let’s go.” He grabbed Gerald, pulling him away. Gerald’s face collapsed inward like the rippling of a pool in reverse and he murmured to himself as they left, “I’m a beggar, but I’m a man, too.”

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