> *Our learning responds to (some) ignorance, eliminates (some) ignorance, manages (some) ignorance, creates a refined and restructured ignorance, and grows knowledge within that vast surround. We grasp the epistemic aspects of the human condition only when we understand the interaction between our knowing and the unknown.* > > Denicola. *Understanding Ignorance: The Surprising Impact of What We Don't Know*. Because of the [[Boundaries]] problem inherent in the term *uncertain*, we often fall into the trap of ***equivocation***. In logic, equivocation is a fallacy that arises when a single word is used to express multiple meanings, leading to confusion and misinterpretation. For example, the word *jackass* may refer to a long-eared, hoofed mammal or to an inconsiderate motorist who just cut us off at an intersection. Similarly, we use the word *uncertain* to express a variety of meanings, often without realising the conceptual drift. This lack of precision breeds misunderstanding, which is why this section is dedicated to (re)drawing boundaries—separating concepts that ought not to be conflated. This ***via negativa***, or way of negation, will help us exclude all that uncertainty ***is not***. Only by peeling back these layers can we get to the core meaning of uncertainty itself. Uncertainty seems to be closely related to knowledge—specifically, to knowledge that is missing, vague, unreliable, or beyond reach. Something ***beyond our ken*** (from Middle English *kennen*, to know). This absence is what we call ***ignorance***, and we often use it interchangeably with uncertainty. But are they really the same? This question belongs to epistemology—the philosophy of knowledge (*epistēmē*, in Greek). Western philosophy, however, has long been preoccupied with ***certain knowledge*** and the eradication of ignorance and uncertainty. For centuries, eminent thinkers mistook ignorance for an empty void and focused exclusively on knowledge instead. Eastern traditions, however, took a different approach. Over 2,500 years ago, Chinese philosopher Laozi wrote: > *We join spokes together in a wheel, but it is the center hole that makes the wagon move. We shape clay into a pot, but it is the emptiness inside that holds whatever we want. We hammer wood for a house, but it is the inner space that makes it livable. We work with being, but non-being is what we use.*[^1] This so-called *emptiness*, which we label ignorance, possesses a quality philosophers refer to as **intentionality**. To be ignorant is to be ignorant *of something*. Absence is not merely a void—it has structure, utility, and form. As Laozi pointed out, holes are more than just nothingness: with a pin, bolt, or screw, they fasten together entire machines; with a string, they turn beads into jewellery; with an axle, they enable a wheel to spin. A doughnut is defined as much by its hole as by the pastry around it. Silence is the absence of sound; drought, the absence of water. Ignorance, too, is **something**—it has a shape, a function, a texture. The ancient **Sceptics**, too, grappled with the nature of ignorance and certainty. Beginning with **Pyrrho of Elis** in the 4th century BCE, the Sceptic school of philosophy took an uncompromising stance against dogmatic assertions of knowledge. Pyrrho, influenced by his travels to India and his encounters with Eastern thought, concluded that human beings could never attain absolute certainty about anything—not because truth was nonexistent, but because our perceptions and reasoning were inherently fallible. His response was _epoché_—the suspension of judgment. Instead of clinging to tenuous claims of knowledge, Pyrrhonists cultivated a state of **radical openness**, avoiding intellectual attachment to any particular belief. Centuries later, the Roman philosopher **Sextus Empiricus** codified Pyrrhonian Scepticism, arguing that every assertion can be countered with an equally compelling opposing argument—a concept known as _equipollence_. Since no claim is definitively superior to its negation, the logical response is not to choose between them but to withhold judgment altogether. This perpetual deferral of certainty, Sextus maintained, led not to anxiety but to _ataraxia_, a deep and abiding tranquility. By relinquishing the need for certainty, one could achieve peace of mind, free from the cognitive distress that arises from trying to grasp the ungraspable. This perspective dovetails with modern insights into uncertainty. The Sceptics anticipated what contemporary cognitive science now affirms: that the mind does not operate on certainty but on **probabilities**, **heuristics**, and ever-evolving **mental models**. The quest for absolute knowledge, whether in philosophy or science, remains perpetually asymptotic—we may inch closer, but never arrive. It is within this tension between knowing and not-knowing that uncertainty takes form. Many centuries went by before another western thinker acknowledged the importance of ignorance. In the 15th-century, German polymath **Nicholas of Cusa** asserted in his famous work *De Docta Ignorantia* (*On Learned Ignorance*) that wisdom was best attained through a deep understanding of our own limitations: > *The true essence of things is unobtainable in its pure form. It was sought by all philosophers, and found by none. By deepening our study of this ignorance, we draw near to the truth.*[^2] More recently, the study of ignorance and uncertainty has gained prominence due to its relevance in cognitive psychology, decision theory, sociology, risk management, economics, and artificial intelligence. Scientific discoveries, too, have reinforced the limitations of certainty. Quantum mechanics has revealed fundamental indeterminacy at the microscopic scale, while Gödel’s famous 1931 incompleteness theorem proved that even in the realm of mathematics, absolute certainty is unattainable.[^3] But ignorance is not simply the absence of knowledge due to missing information. It can also result from an overabundance of information. Every living organism, including humans, is cognitively constrained. The complexity of matter, energy, and causal interactions in our surroundings vastly exceeds our ability to process them. A simple action can have combinatorially explosive consequences, yielding more possibilities than we could ever compute. Thus, ignorance is not just a condition of incomplete data—it is an inescapable feature of our cognitive architecture. For perhaps the first time in history, this *other* form of ignorance is becoming acutely felt in the modern world. The information age has brought an unprecedented tsunami of data, saturating our attention, distorting our focus, and overwhelming our cognitive filters. As Professor of Media Studies Eugene Thacker puts it: > *"A new ignorance is on the horizon, an ignorance borne not of a lack of knowledge but of too much knowledge, too much data, too many theories, too little time."* Whether due to missing or excessive information, **ignorance** is an irreducible aspect of our interaction with the world. It represents the negative space of knowledge—the gaps, voids, and limitations within our understanding. Not merely a hole to be filled with facts—it is the starting gate of every serious inquiry. It marks the terrain of our curiosity, the place where questions bloom. But there comes a curious turning point, a moment when stuffing more knowledge into our heads begins to feel less like illumination and more like hoarding. We realise that not all questions yield to answers, and not all answers offer clarity. Eventually, we may stumble—perhaps with some reluctance—into a more rarefied state: _unknowing_. This is not ignorance reborn, but its dialectical cousin—a cultivated openness, a humility earned through deep learning. The ancient Greeks might have called it _sophrosyne_; the Buddhists, _beginner’s mind_; your eccentric uncle, “knowing better than to think he knows anything.” This unknowing is not resignation but readiness—a recognition that reality resists closure and that wisdom often begins where certainty ends. As we mature in our epistemic pursuits, we learn to hold our knowledge more lightly, to let go of the compulsive need to pin down every butterfly of meaning. This is Nicholas of Cusa’s _docta ignorantia_ in full bloom: not the absence of knowledge, but its conscious limitation. It’s a bit like being a good dinner guest—well-prepared, curious, opinionated, but aware enough to leave room for other voices at the table. In the end, this stance may be the most adaptive of all: neither gorged on certainty nor starved of insight, but perched somewhere in between, open-eyed and expectant. [[Risk|Next page]] <hr> [^1]: Tzu, L., & Mitchell, S. (2006). Tao Te Ching: A New English Version (Perennial Classics) (Reprint ed.). Harper Perennial Modern Classics. [^2]: Nicolai de Cusa, De Docta Ignorantia, Book 1, Chapter 3 (translation of the author) [^3]: Michael Smithson, Ignorance and Uncertainty: Emerging Paradigms