The tragedy of knowing

This piece is part of a monthly column called “Philosofly,” which takes everyday anecdotes to challenge commonly held views and expose questions we hide. 

“When all candles be out, all cats be gray.” The enlarged picture of a giant black cat, accompanied by the suggestive words of John Heywood, flashed across the board. All of us laughed. The undertones couldn’t be more obvious; in dating terms, it meant that when the lights go out, everyone looks the same.

I am a long-time defender of seeking personality over looks when it comes to the dating scene. But can you choose who you love? Though it feels morally right to love someone for their internal qualities, there is an innate attraction we feel towards external appearances. If you love someone for their appearance, can you just decide to stop loving them (because you think it’s wrong)? It is one thing to model your dating philosophy off of John Heywood, to desire generics and lower your standards. It is another to get your heart to listen.

I once thought, with a resounding certainty, that knowledge was the only necessary condition for action; knowledge of the right path, even if subjective, is all a person needs to act in the right way. In fact, it would only be logical to follow what you know is right – why would someone willingly do the wrong thing? All that changed, however, in my sophomore year, when I encountered a certain comestible: Christopher McSweeney’s cheese dip.  

That thing became my archnemesis. Tempted by its irresistible aroma, I hesitantly dipped a tortilla chip into its viscous folds. After the first bite, it was over. I knew I had lost. A childhood spent under the meticulous watch of an immunology-doctorate mother, of rainbow plates and herb-steamed vegetables in every meal, could not prepare me for the depraved taste of a crunchy chip slathered in melted cream cheese. Did I know it was unhealthy? Yes. Did I return to that putrid pot every Sunday with dog-like loyalty? Without question.

The Greeks had a word akrasia, which literally translates to “weakness of will.” It describes the phenomenon of acting against one’s better judgment. I find this an awfully accurate description of a struggle I seem to face daily. My judgment of the right path often clashes with my impulses, so often, in fact, that it almost feels intentional. Personality over looks, but what if that guy in the boarding line is just really fine? Health over indulgence, but what if it’s just one more chip? On a more serious level, akrasia is embedded in our identities as Mercersburg Academy students. We see the “BS” of standardized testing, recognize grade inflation as meaningless, understand that nonchalance is performative—yet we’re still taking SAT boot camps, still devastated by rejection emails, still waiting sixty-seven minutes before we respond to a crush’s text. We’re caught in the very systems we critique. Maybe we are all hypocrites. But I’ve realized that in life, the hardest choices aren’t usually ones where we don’t know the right answer. It’s the ones where we do know the right answer, but we can’t make ourselves choose it.

“Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor.” – Ovid. That’s the great irony we face, the tragedy of knowing. To know the better path and still choose not to walk it.