The problem with narrow genius: Everything you try to say divides into two categories: the already-known and the not-worth-knowing.

For a genius of this kind, listening is torture. Either he already knows where you are going, and waiting for you to plod all the way there yourself is unendurable. Or you are going in the wrong direction and waiting for you to finish your pointless rambling is unendurable. He already knows the right conclusion, and it isn’t where you are headed.

Either way, you’ll be cut off mid-sentence.

I am bleeding from ten-thousand cut-off sentences.

Another problem with narrow genius: The knower is in love with his own knowledge and the intelligence by which he knows it, and he hates whatever defies his intelligence and stands outside his knowing.

Such a person is averse to mystery.

But we humans are, above all else, mysteries to one another.

An aversion to mystery is an aversion to the reality of people.

The Midas touch of self-infatuated smarts values only what it can transmute into cold, gold, self-reflecting mind-treasure — but it cannot touch anything living without stiffening it into mind and mine, me and my I.