What I Learned from Curtis
There are tools that come into a man’s hand like a bright blade, and for a moment he believes the battle already won. Curtis taught me otherwise. A blade does not lend courage to the hand that bears it. A map does not give wisdom to the traveler who has forgotten why he set out. So it is with these new machines. They are swift. They are tireless. They can summon words as a smith summons sparks from iron. Yet speed is not truth. And here the harder question appears. Where does truth come from? Not from the machine. The machine can arrange what has been said. It can imitate certainty. It can gather the noise of many roads and call it counsel. But truth is not noise made orderly. Truth is what remains when our wishing is done. It is given first by reality itself: by the customer who does not buy, the promise that does not hold, the number that will not flatter us, the wound we caused but did not intend, the good result we could not fake. In the highest sense, truth belongs to God. In the daily labor of business, it arrives through witnesses: the buyer, the consequence, the ledger, the silence after a failed pitch, the peace that follows a right refusal. Curtis taught me that the danger is not merely that machines may deceive us. It is that they may help us avoid being corrected. If a house has no foundation, a faster builder only raises the ruin sooner. If a kingdom has forgotten its laws, a hundred messengers only spread confusion more quickly. The machine does not ask whether the errand is worthy. It rides where it is sent. Therefore the first labor is not to build the servants. It is to remember the law beneath the stones. What do we serve? What do we refuse? What must be known before action is taken? What signs prove that the work is true, and not merely fair to look upon? A system without such oaths becomes a splendid forge of hollow things. But one governed by hard-earned conviction may become something rarer. A steward of truth in a time of clever shadows.