Hawkman
04-12-2013, 07:33 AM
Once upon a time, on a lake, in a park, in a city, there was a Duck who laid very fine eggs. They were perfect in form and colour and nearly always hatched out into excellent ducklings that grew into excellent ducks, for she was a most productive bird who laid fertile eggs. Many of the other ducks, who lived on the lake where the Duck who laid very fine eggs lived, were complimentary about the shape and form and colour of her eggs, and they commented admiringly on the excellence of the ducklings that grew into excellent ducks which had hatched from the very fine eggs that the fertile Duck had laid.
There were also geese and swans on the lake where the ducks lived, and they too were prone to observe, that, even though the Duck laid smaller eggs than they did, the eggs which she laid were of exceptional quality.
Of course, there were some ducks who were jealous of the Duck that laid very fine eggs, because their own eggs tended to be lumpy or misshapen, and just didn’t hatch into excellent ducklings which grew into excellent ducks. Some didn’t hatch at all because they were laid by infertile ducks. They grouched and they grumbled amongst themselves, and slowly but surely, their resentment grew and grew.
One day the discontented ducks formed themselves into a raft and then into a paddling and swam up to the most distinguished and singular bird on the lake.
The most distinguished and singular bird on the lake was The Black Swan, and he liked to float on the still glassy water, with his wings set, just so, and with his long glossy neck formed into an elegant “S,” so that he could admire himself in his exquisite reflection. The sheen on his feathers was second to none, and they flashed with black fire in the rays of the sun.
“It’s true,” he admitted, “I am the most distinguished and singular bird on the lake.”
It never occurred to him that he looked like a number two, but then he couldn’t read or write and knew no Arabic numerals, so he was unaware that he looked like a number two, or that when he floated upon the still water of the lake above his own reflection, he became merely one of a pair.
The Black Swan was admiring his reflection, as was his wont, when the paddling of discontented ducks arrived and surrounded him. As they waggled their feet under the water they made ripples which disturbed the glassy stillness of his mirror and wobbled his reflection, which made him out of sorts, as did their seemingly ceaseless quacking which intruded upon his ear most disagreeably.
“Peace! Be still,” he commanded with more than a hint of irritation, for the discontent of the ducks was catching.
At the sound of his voice the discontented ducks once more became a raft and were both still and silent, in accordance with his will.
“That’s better,” said The Black Swan, “Now what do you want?” adding, with a grave and compelling frown, “Let none answer, save one, lest all quack at once.”
By mutual consent, a spokesduck was chosen, and, from the midst of the raft of discontented ducks, a whiffle was heard.
“Oh Sir,” said the delegate of the discontented ducks, “We are sorry to disturb you in your distinguished singularity, but we crave your indulgence and intersession between we who are discontented and she who lays the very fine eggs.”
“And why should that be?” asked The Black Swan.
“She flaunts them at us,” said the whiffling duck, “And she won’t share the secret of how to lay very fine eggs, even though we’ve asked her, again and again, to ease us of our pain and shame. She gives herself airs and simply declares, that she does, although how, she knows not, so she swears.”
“It simply may be,” said The Black Swan, “That it is naught but simple truth. A thing or a duck, or a swan or a goose, is simply what it is its nature to be. I am a distinguished and singular swan, but I am also a cob, which means that I can’t lay eggs at all, though I’ve made my contribution to a few,” and so saying he preened his glossy black feathers with an air of infinite satisfaction.
“So what shall we do? Oh, do tell us true, it’s because of your wisdom we’ve come here to you,” quacked the ducks, and in their agitation they became a paddling again.
“Hush! Calm yourselves,” said The Black Swan, “I know what to do. I have heard tell of a wise and wonderful man who has the knowing and the doing of many things. So, I’ll suggest to the Duck who lays very fine eggs, that she take some to him. He will be able to tell her all about them and then she’ll know why her eggs are so fine and be able to share the secret. Perhaps he’ll even be able to tell her how to improve them.”
This announcement consoled the discontented ducks, who relaxed back into a raft and talked amongst themselves whilst The Black Swan sailed sedately over to the place where the Duck who laid very fine eggs was foraging.
“He-e-e-l-lo-o-o,” he said in his suavest, most sophisticated voice. With every perfectly preened feather flashing black fire in the sunlight he was an imposing sight to behold.
The Duck who laid very fine eggs was terribly flattered to be receiving a visit from the most distinguished and singular bird on the lake, and would have blushed, if she hadn’t been a duck, but being a duck she waggled her tail in excited consternation, and while checking her appearance in the glassy waters, she quickly preened and patted an errant feather into place with her bill.
“Why Sir,” she said, “To what do I owe the honour of this unexpected visit from The Black Swan, who is undoubtedly the bird most distinguished in his singularity, upon this, or any other lake?”
“Why Madam,” came the reply, “You are yourself quite famous. Are you not the Duck who lays very fine eggs?”
“I am a duck, Sir and I lay eggs, but far be it from me to declare the degree of their fineness. I am only fit to judge as a mother judges and as one who takes pride in her work and children. If others consider them to be fine, then I am pleased, for it reflects well upon me.”
“It is a truth, universally acknowledged,” said The Black Swan, “That your eggs are particularly fine, and your modesty does you credit. But is it truly so that you don’t know how you do it; that you have no special secret that guarantees the quality of the very fine eggs that you lay?”
“Indeed Sir, it is.”
“How extraordinary,” said the most distinguished and singular bird on the lake. “Have you not considered that self-knowledge is a goal worthy of attainment and that it is your duty to your species to share that knowledge for the betterment of all?”
“I have always thought it enough that one so worthy of note might merely lead by example. Surely, those who desire to emulate, equal or even surpass the achievements of such a one, may do so by observation alone. But I must concede, self-knowledge is a worthy goal.”
“Madam, you answer wisely, but self-knowledge is not so easily attained. It is achieved by meticulous examination, which is a path fraught with peril. It is a journey which should only be undertaken under the auspices of a learned guide. Under such expert tutelage you would receive enlightenment and learn how you might yet be more perfect than ever you dreamed.”
“Indeed Sir, but where might I find such a one?”
“It just so happens,” said The Black Swan, “That I have heard tell of a wise and wonderful man who has the knowing and the doing of many things. He lives, I am told, in a great building, where many, such as he, dwell and investigate the secrets of the universe, if, indeed, there be but one. You must go to him and take him some of your very fine eggs and he will be able to tell you how you do it.”
The Duck who laid very fine eggs listened to the hypnotically persuasive words of the most distinguished and singular bird on the lake as he told her where to travel to find the wise and wonderful man who had the knowing and the doing of many things. And at last, when he had finished, she went to the place where her very fine eggs were lying and she gathered them up. Then, cradling them gently in her wings, she set out on her mysterious journey of self-discovery.
And so it came to pass, that at last, the Duck, who laid very fine eggs, arrived at the portal of the great building, where many wise and wonderfully learned men (who had the knowing and the doing of many things) dwelt in order to study the secrets of the universe, if, indeed, there be but one.
“Excuse me,” said the Duck, with all due humility and deference, “I wish to consult the wise and wonderful man who has the knowing and the doing of many things.”
“Which one?” replied the gatekeeper, for it was he whom she addressed, “They’re all like that in here.”
It seemed to the Duck that the great building was indeed a place of wonderful learning, for even the servants spoke waterfowl.
“Why Sir,” she replied, “If indeed there are so many, then surely I must speak to the wisest and most wonderful of them all.”
“Ah, that would be The Master, for he is the wisest of all wise men and thinks himself quite wonderful. I’ll take you to him.”
And so the gatekeeper led the Duck who laid very fine eggs to the door of the chamber where The Master toiled and worked to discover the secrets of the universe, if, indeed, there be but one, and left her there, as he had to return to his duties at the gate. The Duck trembled with nervous excitement as she stood before the door, which stood slightly ajar, knowing that beyond it she would find the wisest of all wise men. Summoning up her courage, she pecked upon a lower panel to announce her presence.
“Come!” intoned a voice from within.
To the Duck, who knew little of the ways of men, the voice sounded kindly but distracted, whilst being imbued with indisputable authority, and so she obeyed the summons and waddled into the presence of its owner. The Master was sitting behind a great mahogany desk, upon which there were many papers and piles of books and strange and complicated instruments of discovery. He was obviously engaged in some weighty matter of note, for he was writing on a parchment with a quill, the feathery end of which waggled in time to the strokes of the nib. The room was darkish and gloomy, for there was but one grimy window set into the wall, and all around were tall brown bookshelves filled with tall brown books.
The Master had not looked up as she’d entered, and continued to write, scratching away with his quill on the parchment. It seemed to occupy every neuron in the great brain contained within the wise and wonderful old head, which was capped with a mantle of flowing white hair. ‘He must have forgotten that he’d invited me in,’ thought the Duck who laid very fine eggs.
She waited for a while and shuffled from foot to foot in suspense, until, at last, she could bear it no longer, for the scratching of the nib upon the parchment and the waggling of the feathery end of the quill, grated upon her nerves with such intensity that she thought she was going to scream. In the end, she couldn’t help herself and she quacked.
“Why, bless my soul! There’s a duck in my room!” exclaimed the master with a start, and in his startlement he dropped his quill and a little shower of dust cascaded from the top of his flowing locks. He leaned forward and peered over the top of his gold rimmed, half-moon spectacles at the surprising duck. “What are you doing here?” he asked, though not unkindly and with genuine curiosity.
“Please Sir, by your leave, I come seeking self-knowledge with a view to understanding how I do what I do, and in exploration of the possibility of improvement.”
“The pursuit of knowledge, in any and all, is an admirable goal; a mission laudable in ambition, except, perhaps, in Adam and Eve before the fall, but it is especially so in a duck,” said The Master. ”Tell me, what is it you do that you wish to understand and improve?”
The Duck who laid very fine eggs told him. Incidentally, she didn’t know who Adam and Eve were, but as they seemed to be the exception that proved the rule regarding the pursuit of knowledge, she gave them not a second thought.
“I see,” said the Master, “But that is a bold claim indeed,”
“Indeed it is, Sir, but it is not I who make it. This is the opinion vouchsafed to me by my peers. But there are others of my kind who cannot do as I do, and they have asked me my secret, but I have no secret, for I don’t know how I do it. It is to gain this knowledge that I come to you, who are the wisest and most wonderful of all the wise and wonderfully learned men who have the knowing and the doing of many things, and who dwell in this great building to study the secrets of the universe, if, indeed, there be but one.”
“Good answer – you’re in,” said The Master, “Now let’s begin. Show me.”
The Duck offered up one of the very fine eggs that she’d laid to the scrutiny of The Master.
“Of each particular thing, ask: What is it in itself? What is its nature?” he began. “Firstly, let us describe it. It is an ovoid. A duck claims to have laid it. Therefore, from a cursory examination, we can surmise that this is an egg, a duck’s egg. It conforms to known paradigms of ducks’ eggs, being of the right size, shape and colour, though these can vary within set limits without prejudice to the determination of the duck egg supposition.”
‘So far, so good,’ thought the Duck, ‘I hope he doesn’t propose to teach me how to suck it, for I’m not equipped to do so. I have a bill, which is inflexible, and the wrong shape for sucking eggs. Besides, I’m a duck and ducks are not cannibals.’
“Now the issue of quality is a trickier matter. It is inevitably a subjective determination often governed by matters as arbitrary as taste.”
At this point the Duck who laid very fine eggs became seriously concerned for the welfare of her egg.
“By taste,” continued The Master, “I mean to indicate preference—“
The Duck was reassured by this qualification.
“—but some criteria for excellence would be concerned with flavour.”
The Duck was again perturbed. ‘Eeeek,’ she thought, or at least something like it.
“However, there are more obvious and quantifiable attributes of the egg which can be determined from simple observation. The smoothness and resilience of the shell and the overall weight, for example,” and so saying, The Master proceeded to weigh the egg and then examined its surface, firstly with his fingers and then with a magnifying glass, looking for textural irregularities. He found none worthy of note. “So far, so good,” he said.
The Duck was far from happy at the treatment of her very fine egg. Nevertheless, she realised that the pursuit of knowledge was a worthy goal, in and of itself, for she had been told so by The Black Swan, who was, without doubt, the most distinguished and singular bird on the lake, and also by The Master, who was universally acknowledged to be the wisest and most wonderful of all the wise and wonderfully learned men who have the knowing and the doing of many things, and she was well aware that the learning process may often be a painful one. She just had no idea how painful it would prove to be.
“On initial examination, and from an aesthetic standpoint,” said The Master, “The egg might certainly be considered to be a very fine one—” and on hearing this, the Duck who had laid it, was both relieved and encouraged— “but in order to understand what makes it so, it is necessary to deconstruct it!”
But these words both alarmed and saddened the Duck, for by her understanding, ‘deconstructing’ meant, ‘taking apart,’ and if an egg is taken apart it becomes a broken egg, which she didn’t consider to be fine at all, and she said so in no uncertain terms.
“Come now,” said the master with sententious gravitas, “You must not falter! You have come here to learn and you stand upon the threshold of discovery. You must be prepared to make sacrifices. How else can you determine the fineness of your eggs and find out how they may be improved?” and so saying, he cut through the shell and separated all the different parts into sterile dishes and labelled them. Unfortunately, this killed the divine spark of life within, for it had been a fertilized egg.
“Why,” said The Master, “This egg was fertilized. Some would find this disagreeable to their taste, for they consider it impairs the flavour. However, this is again subjective, for it depends on what one wants from a duck egg. If one desires a duckling, then the egg is fit for purpose, but if one wishes to eat the egg, then it isn’t good at all.”
“You have deconstructed my egg,” said the Duck who had laid it, sadly, “But can you put it back together again, or make it better than it was before?”
“I can but try,” said The Master. “Come back tomorrow and we shall continue with your course of study.”
The Duck hung her head in sadness, turned on her webbed foot and waddled away.
For the rest of the day The Master bent the considerable weight of his wise and wonderful faculties to the problem of the egg. He tried to put the egg back together again, but the results were not entirely satisfactory and eventually he gave up. Instead, he scrambled it, cooking it over a Bunsen burner in a little dish, and then he ate it and digested it. But what he produced afterwards wasn’t anything like as fine as the egg which the Duck had laid. It was brown and lumpy and smelt bad.
Nevertheless, being the wisest and most wonderful of all the wise and wonderfully learned men (who have the knowing and the doing of many things) who dwelt in a great building to study the secrets of the universe, if, indeed, there be but one, The Master meticulously recorded everything he’d done and wrote a report. Then he saved the specimen he had produced in a pickling jar and put it on one of the tall brown bookshelves that lined the walls of his chamber.
The next day the Duck returned and asked The Master if he had been able to reconstruct her egg.
“I have thought long and hard on the matter,” he replied, “and having analysed and digested the constituent parts, I have reassembled it in different form,” and proudly showed her the pickle jar on the tall brown bookshelf. He then extolled the virtues of the specimen and explained how it contained everything that had been in her egg, even the spark of life contained in the microbes which it harboured, at least until he’d pickled it.
The Duck was not impressed, for she thought it to be a very poor egg that would never hatch into an excellent duckling and grow into an excellent duck. But she held her tongue, for The Master was everywhere acknowledged to be the wisest and most wonderful of all the wise and wonderfully learned men who have the knowing and the doing of many things, and dwell in a great building to study the secrets of the universe, if, indeed, there be but one.
As if he’d read her thoughts (though possibly because he’d seen the expression on her face) The Master said:
“If you truly wish to improve, then you must think beyond the confines of mere functionality. Is it enough that a thing be merely fit for purpose? There are other elements that should be considered; like artistic merit and the altruism of usefulness to others, which exceed the primary objective.”
“How so?”
“Have you considered changing the shape of the egg? For example, if the egg were a cube, it would not only be a perfectly regular form, but it would not roll away from the nest and be lost. If you were to also contrive to decorate the surface planes of the egg with speckles, to form dots like a die, then others would be able to use it in games and gambling, which might be to their personal enrichment.”
“But surely,” replied the Duck, “The shell would not be strong enough to withstand such treatment?”
“The shell of an egg is formed from Calcium Carbonate, which is derived from elements of your diet. If you were to vary your diet you would be able to alter the composition of the shell and make it strong enough. The key to learning is in experimentation. It is through enquiry and experiment that we improve!”
And so the Duck stayed with The Master for many weeks and months, and she did what he suggested she do to improve. She varied her diet and ate nuts and bolts to strengthen the shell of the eggs which she laid. But they were lumpy and impenetrable and never hatched, for they were not fertilized with any divine spark. And she tried, oh so hard, to give her eggs artistic merit that would nourish the soul of all who saw them, but the strange sculpted forms tore at her insides as she gave birth to them, and eventually she was unable to lay any eggs at all.
At last, she left the great building where all the wise and wonderfully learned men dwelt to study the secrets of the universe, if, indeed, there be but one, and she returned to the lake, in the park, in the city, where she had been so happy in her ignorance, and where she had laid so many very fine eggs which had hatched into excellent ducklings and grown into excellent ducks. But she had been gone for so long that the drake who had fertilized her eggs had taken up with another. The Duck who had laid the very fine eggs was sick in heart and body, and shunned by the other ducks, and the geese and the swans, and thereafter she wandered alone along the shore.
Then, one day, it came to pass that she was spotted by a peckish peregrine who was looking for a meal to share with his excellent eyas, and he caught her and killed her and fed her to his chick. The eyas grew into a perfect peregrine that preyed upon the discontented ducks on the lake, so it might be considered, that in the karmic scheme of things, the Duck who laid very fine eggs lived on and was avenged for the terrible consequences of the discontented ducks’ jealousy, but you, gentle reader, may draw your own conclusions.
There were also geese and swans on the lake where the ducks lived, and they too were prone to observe, that, even though the Duck laid smaller eggs than they did, the eggs which she laid were of exceptional quality.
Of course, there were some ducks who were jealous of the Duck that laid very fine eggs, because their own eggs tended to be lumpy or misshapen, and just didn’t hatch into excellent ducklings which grew into excellent ducks. Some didn’t hatch at all because they were laid by infertile ducks. They grouched and they grumbled amongst themselves, and slowly but surely, their resentment grew and grew.
One day the discontented ducks formed themselves into a raft and then into a paddling and swam up to the most distinguished and singular bird on the lake.
The most distinguished and singular bird on the lake was The Black Swan, and he liked to float on the still glassy water, with his wings set, just so, and with his long glossy neck formed into an elegant “S,” so that he could admire himself in his exquisite reflection. The sheen on his feathers was second to none, and they flashed with black fire in the rays of the sun.
“It’s true,” he admitted, “I am the most distinguished and singular bird on the lake.”
It never occurred to him that he looked like a number two, but then he couldn’t read or write and knew no Arabic numerals, so he was unaware that he looked like a number two, or that when he floated upon the still water of the lake above his own reflection, he became merely one of a pair.
The Black Swan was admiring his reflection, as was his wont, when the paddling of discontented ducks arrived and surrounded him. As they waggled their feet under the water they made ripples which disturbed the glassy stillness of his mirror and wobbled his reflection, which made him out of sorts, as did their seemingly ceaseless quacking which intruded upon his ear most disagreeably.
“Peace! Be still,” he commanded with more than a hint of irritation, for the discontent of the ducks was catching.
At the sound of his voice the discontented ducks once more became a raft and were both still and silent, in accordance with his will.
“That’s better,” said The Black Swan, “Now what do you want?” adding, with a grave and compelling frown, “Let none answer, save one, lest all quack at once.”
By mutual consent, a spokesduck was chosen, and, from the midst of the raft of discontented ducks, a whiffle was heard.
“Oh Sir,” said the delegate of the discontented ducks, “We are sorry to disturb you in your distinguished singularity, but we crave your indulgence and intersession between we who are discontented and she who lays the very fine eggs.”
“And why should that be?” asked The Black Swan.
“She flaunts them at us,” said the whiffling duck, “And she won’t share the secret of how to lay very fine eggs, even though we’ve asked her, again and again, to ease us of our pain and shame. She gives herself airs and simply declares, that she does, although how, she knows not, so she swears.”
“It simply may be,” said The Black Swan, “That it is naught but simple truth. A thing or a duck, or a swan or a goose, is simply what it is its nature to be. I am a distinguished and singular swan, but I am also a cob, which means that I can’t lay eggs at all, though I’ve made my contribution to a few,” and so saying he preened his glossy black feathers with an air of infinite satisfaction.
“So what shall we do? Oh, do tell us true, it’s because of your wisdom we’ve come here to you,” quacked the ducks, and in their agitation they became a paddling again.
“Hush! Calm yourselves,” said The Black Swan, “I know what to do. I have heard tell of a wise and wonderful man who has the knowing and the doing of many things. So, I’ll suggest to the Duck who lays very fine eggs, that she take some to him. He will be able to tell her all about them and then she’ll know why her eggs are so fine and be able to share the secret. Perhaps he’ll even be able to tell her how to improve them.”
This announcement consoled the discontented ducks, who relaxed back into a raft and talked amongst themselves whilst The Black Swan sailed sedately over to the place where the Duck who laid very fine eggs was foraging.
“He-e-e-l-lo-o-o,” he said in his suavest, most sophisticated voice. With every perfectly preened feather flashing black fire in the sunlight he was an imposing sight to behold.
The Duck who laid very fine eggs was terribly flattered to be receiving a visit from the most distinguished and singular bird on the lake, and would have blushed, if she hadn’t been a duck, but being a duck she waggled her tail in excited consternation, and while checking her appearance in the glassy waters, she quickly preened and patted an errant feather into place with her bill.
“Why Sir,” she said, “To what do I owe the honour of this unexpected visit from The Black Swan, who is undoubtedly the bird most distinguished in his singularity, upon this, or any other lake?”
“Why Madam,” came the reply, “You are yourself quite famous. Are you not the Duck who lays very fine eggs?”
“I am a duck, Sir and I lay eggs, but far be it from me to declare the degree of their fineness. I am only fit to judge as a mother judges and as one who takes pride in her work and children. If others consider them to be fine, then I am pleased, for it reflects well upon me.”
“It is a truth, universally acknowledged,” said The Black Swan, “That your eggs are particularly fine, and your modesty does you credit. But is it truly so that you don’t know how you do it; that you have no special secret that guarantees the quality of the very fine eggs that you lay?”
“Indeed Sir, it is.”
“How extraordinary,” said the most distinguished and singular bird on the lake. “Have you not considered that self-knowledge is a goal worthy of attainment and that it is your duty to your species to share that knowledge for the betterment of all?”
“I have always thought it enough that one so worthy of note might merely lead by example. Surely, those who desire to emulate, equal or even surpass the achievements of such a one, may do so by observation alone. But I must concede, self-knowledge is a worthy goal.”
“Madam, you answer wisely, but self-knowledge is not so easily attained. It is achieved by meticulous examination, which is a path fraught with peril. It is a journey which should only be undertaken under the auspices of a learned guide. Under such expert tutelage you would receive enlightenment and learn how you might yet be more perfect than ever you dreamed.”
“Indeed Sir, but where might I find such a one?”
“It just so happens,” said The Black Swan, “That I have heard tell of a wise and wonderful man who has the knowing and the doing of many things. He lives, I am told, in a great building, where many, such as he, dwell and investigate the secrets of the universe, if, indeed, there be but one. You must go to him and take him some of your very fine eggs and he will be able to tell you how you do it.”
The Duck who laid very fine eggs listened to the hypnotically persuasive words of the most distinguished and singular bird on the lake as he told her where to travel to find the wise and wonderful man who had the knowing and the doing of many things. And at last, when he had finished, she went to the place where her very fine eggs were lying and she gathered them up. Then, cradling them gently in her wings, she set out on her mysterious journey of self-discovery.
And so it came to pass, that at last, the Duck, who laid very fine eggs, arrived at the portal of the great building, where many wise and wonderfully learned men (who had the knowing and the doing of many things) dwelt in order to study the secrets of the universe, if, indeed, there be but one.
“Excuse me,” said the Duck, with all due humility and deference, “I wish to consult the wise and wonderful man who has the knowing and the doing of many things.”
“Which one?” replied the gatekeeper, for it was he whom she addressed, “They’re all like that in here.”
It seemed to the Duck that the great building was indeed a place of wonderful learning, for even the servants spoke waterfowl.
“Why Sir,” she replied, “If indeed there are so many, then surely I must speak to the wisest and most wonderful of them all.”
“Ah, that would be The Master, for he is the wisest of all wise men and thinks himself quite wonderful. I’ll take you to him.”
And so the gatekeeper led the Duck who laid very fine eggs to the door of the chamber where The Master toiled and worked to discover the secrets of the universe, if, indeed, there be but one, and left her there, as he had to return to his duties at the gate. The Duck trembled with nervous excitement as she stood before the door, which stood slightly ajar, knowing that beyond it she would find the wisest of all wise men. Summoning up her courage, she pecked upon a lower panel to announce her presence.
“Come!” intoned a voice from within.
To the Duck, who knew little of the ways of men, the voice sounded kindly but distracted, whilst being imbued with indisputable authority, and so she obeyed the summons and waddled into the presence of its owner. The Master was sitting behind a great mahogany desk, upon which there were many papers and piles of books and strange and complicated instruments of discovery. He was obviously engaged in some weighty matter of note, for he was writing on a parchment with a quill, the feathery end of which waggled in time to the strokes of the nib. The room was darkish and gloomy, for there was but one grimy window set into the wall, and all around were tall brown bookshelves filled with tall brown books.
The Master had not looked up as she’d entered, and continued to write, scratching away with his quill on the parchment. It seemed to occupy every neuron in the great brain contained within the wise and wonderful old head, which was capped with a mantle of flowing white hair. ‘He must have forgotten that he’d invited me in,’ thought the Duck who laid very fine eggs.
She waited for a while and shuffled from foot to foot in suspense, until, at last, she could bear it no longer, for the scratching of the nib upon the parchment and the waggling of the feathery end of the quill, grated upon her nerves with such intensity that she thought she was going to scream. In the end, she couldn’t help herself and she quacked.
“Why, bless my soul! There’s a duck in my room!” exclaimed the master with a start, and in his startlement he dropped his quill and a little shower of dust cascaded from the top of his flowing locks. He leaned forward and peered over the top of his gold rimmed, half-moon spectacles at the surprising duck. “What are you doing here?” he asked, though not unkindly and with genuine curiosity.
“Please Sir, by your leave, I come seeking self-knowledge with a view to understanding how I do what I do, and in exploration of the possibility of improvement.”
“The pursuit of knowledge, in any and all, is an admirable goal; a mission laudable in ambition, except, perhaps, in Adam and Eve before the fall, but it is especially so in a duck,” said The Master. ”Tell me, what is it you do that you wish to understand and improve?”
The Duck who laid very fine eggs told him. Incidentally, she didn’t know who Adam and Eve were, but as they seemed to be the exception that proved the rule regarding the pursuit of knowledge, she gave them not a second thought.
“I see,” said the Master, “But that is a bold claim indeed,”
“Indeed it is, Sir, but it is not I who make it. This is the opinion vouchsafed to me by my peers. But there are others of my kind who cannot do as I do, and they have asked me my secret, but I have no secret, for I don’t know how I do it. It is to gain this knowledge that I come to you, who are the wisest and most wonderful of all the wise and wonderfully learned men who have the knowing and the doing of many things, and who dwell in this great building to study the secrets of the universe, if, indeed, there be but one.”
“Good answer – you’re in,” said The Master, “Now let’s begin. Show me.”
The Duck offered up one of the very fine eggs that she’d laid to the scrutiny of The Master.
“Of each particular thing, ask: What is it in itself? What is its nature?” he began. “Firstly, let us describe it. It is an ovoid. A duck claims to have laid it. Therefore, from a cursory examination, we can surmise that this is an egg, a duck’s egg. It conforms to known paradigms of ducks’ eggs, being of the right size, shape and colour, though these can vary within set limits without prejudice to the determination of the duck egg supposition.”
‘So far, so good,’ thought the Duck, ‘I hope he doesn’t propose to teach me how to suck it, for I’m not equipped to do so. I have a bill, which is inflexible, and the wrong shape for sucking eggs. Besides, I’m a duck and ducks are not cannibals.’
“Now the issue of quality is a trickier matter. It is inevitably a subjective determination often governed by matters as arbitrary as taste.”
At this point the Duck who laid very fine eggs became seriously concerned for the welfare of her egg.
“By taste,” continued The Master, “I mean to indicate preference—“
The Duck was reassured by this qualification.
“—but some criteria for excellence would be concerned with flavour.”
The Duck was again perturbed. ‘Eeeek,’ she thought, or at least something like it.
“However, there are more obvious and quantifiable attributes of the egg which can be determined from simple observation. The smoothness and resilience of the shell and the overall weight, for example,” and so saying, The Master proceeded to weigh the egg and then examined its surface, firstly with his fingers and then with a magnifying glass, looking for textural irregularities. He found none worthy of note. “So far, so good,” he said.
The Duck was far from happy at the treatment of her very fine egg. Nevertheless, she realised that the pursuit of knowledge was a worthy goal, in and of itself, for she had been told so by The Black Swan, who was, without doubt, the most distinguished and singular bird on the lake, and also by The Master, who was universally acknowledged to be the wisest and most wonderful of all the wise and wonderfully learned men who have the knowing and the doing of many things, and she was well aware that the learning process may often be a painful one. She just had no idea how painful it would prove to be.
“On initial examination, and from an aesthetic standpoint,” said The Master, “The egg might certainly be considered to be a very fine one—” and on hearing this, the Duck who had laid it, was both relieved and encouraged— “but in order to understand what makes it so, it is necessary to deconstruct it!”
But these words both alarmed and saddened the Duck, for by her understanding, ‘deconstructing’ meant, ‘taking apart,’ and if an egg is taken apart it becomes a broken egg, which she didn’t consider to be fine at all, and she said so in no uncertain terms.
“Come now,” said the master with sententious gravitas, “You must not falter! You have come here to learn and you stand upon the threshold of discovery. You must be prepared to make sacrifices. How else can you determine the fineness of your eggs and find out how they may be improved?” and so saying, he cut through the shell and separated all the different parts into sterile dishes and labelled them. Unfortunately, this killed the divine spark of life within, for it had been a fertilized egg.
“Why,” said The Master, “This egg was fertilized. Some would find this disagreeable to their taste, for they consider it impairs the flavour. However, this is again subjective, for it depends on what one wants from a duck egg. If one desires a duckling, then the egg is fit for purpose, but if one wishes to eat the egg, then it isn’t good at all.”
“You have deconstructed my egg,” said the Duck who had laid it, sadly, “But can you put it back together again, or make it better than it was before?”
“I can but try,” said The Master. “Come back tomorrow and we shall continue with your course of study.”
The Duck hung her head in sadness, turned on her webbed foot and waddled away.
For the rest of the day The Master bent the considerable weight of his wise and wonderful faculties to the problem of the egg. He tried to put the egg back together again, but the results were not entirely satisfactory and eventually he gave up. Instead, he scrambled it, cooking it over a Bunsen burner in a little dish, and then he ate it and digested it. But what he produced afterwards wasn’t anything like as fine as the egg which the Duck had laid. It was brown and lumpy and smelt bad.
Nevertheless, being the wisest and most wonderful of all the wise and wonderfully learned men (who have the knowing and the doing of many things) who dwelt in a great building to study the secrets of the universe, if, indeed, there be but one, The Master meticulously recorded everything he’d done and wrote a report. Then he saved the specimen he had produced in a pickling jar and put it on one of the tall brown bookshelves that lined the walls of his chamber.
The next day the Duck returned and asked The Master if he had been able to reconstruct her egg.
“I have thought long and hard on the matter,” he replied, “and having analysed and digested the constituent parts, I have reassembled it in different form,” and proudly showed her the pickle jar on the tall brown bookshelf. He then extolled the virtues of the specimen and explained how it contained everything that had been in her egg, even the spark of life contained in the microbes which it harboured, at least until he’d pickled it.
The Duck was not impressed, for she thought it to be a very poor egg that would never hatch into an excellent duckling and grow into an excellent duck. But she held her tongue, for The Master was everywhere acknowledged to be the wisest and most wonderful of all the wise and wonderfully learned men who have the knowing and the doing of many things, and dwell in a great building to study the secrets of the universe, if, indeed, there be but one.
As if he’d read her thoughts (though possibly because he’d seen the expression on her face) The Master said:
“If you truly wish to improve, then you must think beyond the confines of mere functionality. Is it enough that a thing be merely fit for purpose? There are other elements that should be considered; like artistic merit and the altruism of usefulness to others, which exceed the primary objective.”
“How so?”
“Have you considered changing the shape of the egg? For example, if the egg were a cube, it would not only be a perfectly regular form, but it would not roll away from the nest and be lost. If you were to also contrive to decorate the surface planes of the egg with speckles, to form dots like a die, then others would be able to use it in games and gambling, which might be to their personal enrichment.”
“But surely,” replied the Duck, “The shell would not be strong enough to withstand such treatment?”
“The shell of an egg is formed from Calcium Carbonate, which is derived from elements of your diet. If you were to vary your diet you would be able to alter the composition of the shell and make it strong enough. The key to learning is in experimentation. It is through enquiry and experiment that we improve!”
And so the Duck stayed with The Master for many weeks and months, and she did what he suggested she do to improve. She varied her diet and ate nuts and bolts to strengthen the shell of the eggs which she laid. But they were lumpy and impenetrable and never hatched, for they were not fertilized with any divine spark. And she tried, oh so hard, to give her eggs artistic merit that would nourish the soul of all who saw them, but the strange sculpted forms tore at her insides as she gave birth to them, and eventually she was unable to lay any eggs at all.
At last, she left the great building where all the wise and wonderfully learned men dwelt to study the secrets of the universe, if, indeed, there be but one, and she returned to the lake, in the park, in the city, where she had been so happy in her ignorance, and where she had laid so many very fine eggs which had hatched into excellent ducklings and grown into excellent ducks. But she had been gone for so long that the drake who had fertilized her eggs had taken up with another. The Duck who had laid the very fine eggs was sick in heart and body, and shunned by the other ducks, and the geese and the swans, and thereafter she wandered alone along the shore.
Then, one day, it came to pass that she was spotted by a peckish peregrine who was looking for a meal to share with his excellent eyas, and he caught her and killed her and fed her to his chick. The eyas grew into a perfect peregrine that preyed upon the discontented ducks on the lake, so it might be considered, that in the karmic scheme of things, the Duck who laid very fine eggs lived on and was avenged for the terrible consequences of the discontented ducks’ jealousy, but you, gentle reader, may draw your own conclusions.