The Man Who Knew All Things

There was once a man who knew all things. No joke. All things. 

He lived in a small town, with kind people, who went about their days one hour at a time. They weren’t the smartest people. And they weren’t the most efficient people. Not many of them were especially rich. But they made do with what they had. They ate a little bit too much, and didn’t work especially hard, and they all seemed to have one too many children for what they could afford. 

The man who knew all things was bothered by this. He knew a better way of life. He knew how the farmers in his town could sell more of their crop. He knew how the bakers in his town could bake more delicious bread. He knew how the officials in his town could better spend the people’s taxes. 

The trouble was, whenever he tried to help his neighbors, they wouldn’t listen. They smiled at him, sure, and they nodded their heads along with what he said. They even said “thank you” when he had finished showing them how to live a better life. But as the weeks went by, the man who knew all things didn’t see his neighbors use any of his advice. They went about their days in the same way they always had, eating, and drinking, and working just the same as they always had. 

Meanwhile, in the same town as the man who knew all things, there lived a storyteller. The storyteller wasn’t especially rich. He wasn’t especially smart. But somehow, every day around noon, after rising late, reading the paper, finishing a cappuccino, and smoking two cigarettes, a crowd gathered around the storyteller in front of the fountain in the square. Children and elderly folks, and (once they got off work) adults too, joined the storyteller around the fountain to hear his stories. 

For a while, the man who knew all things watched this occurrence from the other side of the town square, green with secret envy. Then, one day, he decided to hear a story for himself. He wanted to know if the storyteller’s stories were as good as the ones he had seen on stage in the city. So he approached the back of the crowd that had gathered around the storyteller. And immediately, the man who knew all things scoffed. For the storyteller was telling a child in the front row about a train. But the storyteller was getting all the specifics wrong. The storyteller said trains were powered by burning wood, when the man who knew all things knew trains were powered by coal. The man who knew all things whispered to a woman next to him, “that isn’t right, you know.” “SHHHHH!” the woman responded quickly, with a finger pressed to her lips. 

At the end of the inaccurate story, a boy sitting at the feet of the storyteller squealed, “I want to be a train conductor!” And the storyteller told the boy, “Someday my friend, you will.” The church bell rang, and everyone realized it was time to go home to cook dinner. So the crowd reluctantly dispersed, thanking the storyteller as they left. The man who knew all things pretended to turn away, but he kept the storyteller in his sights from the corner of the square. Once everyone had left, and the storyteller lit up a final cigarette, and began to walk away from the square, the man who knew all things felt it was too late. The man who knew all things began to turn away. Then, all at once, he knew he was making a mistake. 

“Wait!” The man who knew all things shouted. The storyteller froze, and slowly turned around. The man who knew all things ran up to the storyteller, who looked at him with surprised eyes. “How do you do it?” the man who knew all things blurted out. “How do you get them to listen to you?”

The storyteller’s eyes turned from surprise to pity. His lip bottom tightened quickly, and then loosened again. He took a breath, never looking away from the eyes of the man who knew all things. 

“My friend,” the storyteller said. “In order to be seen, we must see. In order to be understood, we must understand.”

And after a long pause, finally the storyteller said, “In order to be heard, we must listen.”