The World's Fair

Oh, how to load a question, eh? And a dangerous one, at that.

I mostly think of this topic, of progress and science and technology, as one of faith. Saying that doesn't explain much about what I'm talking about, but I don't intend here to be unnecessarily obscure. Rather, here's a poem instead of a diatribe or monologue or pontificatory (not a word) uber-blurb. It's by a Portuguese poet, and I thank WG for sending it along.

Friends, nothing has changed
in essence.

Wages don't cover expenses,
wars persist without end,
and there are new and terrible viruses,
beyond the advance of medicine.
From time to time, a neighbor
falls dead over questions of love.
There are interesting films, it is true,
and, as always, voluptuous women
seducing us with their mouths and legs,
but in matters of love
we haven't invented a single position that's new.

Some astronauts stay in space
six months or more, testing
equipment and solitude.
In each Olympics new records are predicted
and in the countries social advances and setbacks.
But not a single bird has changed its song
with the times.

We put on the same Greek tragedies,
reread "Don Quixote," and spring
arrives on time each year.

Some habits, rivers, and forests are lost.
Nobody sits in front of his house anymore
or takes in the breezes of the afternoon,
but we have amazing computers
that keep us from thinking.

On the disappearance of the dinosaurs
and the formation of the galaxies
we have no new knowledge.
Clothes come and go with the fashions.
Strong governments fall, others rise,
countries are divided,
and the ants and the bees continue
faithfully to their work.

Nothing has changed in essence.

We sing congratulations at parties,
argue football on street corners,
die in senseless disasters,
and from time to time
one of us looks at the star-filled sky
with the same amazement we had
when we looked at caves.
And each generation, full of itself,
continues to think
that it lives at the summit of history.