'the richness of the world ... and, often, its inscrutability'

Whenever parts of a system interfere or cooperate with each other, there are nonlinear interactions taking place. Most of everyday life is spectacularly nonlinear; if you listen to your two favorite songs at the same time, you won’t get double the pleasure. The same goes for consuming alcohol and drugs, where the interaction effects can be deadly. By contrast, peanut butter and jelly are better together. They don’t just add up—they synergize. 

Nonlinearity is responsible for the richness of the world, for its beauty and complexity and, often, its inscrutability. For example, all of biology is nonlinear; so is sociology. That’s why the soft sciences are hard—and the last to be mathematized. Because of nonlinearity, there’s nothing soft about them. 

[…] 

Sofia Kovalevskaya helped us understand how different the world appears when we finally face up to nonlinearity. She realized that nonlinearity places limits on human hubris. When a system is nonlinear, its behavior can be impossible to forecast with formulas, even though that behavior is completely determined. In other words, determinism does not imply predictability. It took the motion of a top—a child’s plaything—to make us more humble about what we can ever hope to know.

—Steven Strogatz, Infinite Powers (2019)

Pursuing Sacred Magic

The practical aspect of the scientific ideal is revealed in the progress of modern science from the eighteenth century to the present day. Its essential stages are the discoveries and putting into man's service, successively, steam, electricity and atomic energy. But as different as these appear to be, these discoveries are based only on a single principle, namely the principle of the destruction of matter, by which energy is freed in order to be captured anew by man so as to be put at his service.... [T]he practical aspect of the scientific ideal is the domination of Nature by means of putting into play the principle of destruction or death.

Imagine, dear Unknown Friend, efforts and discoveries in the opposite direction, in the direction of construction or life. Imagine, not an explosion, but rather the blossoming out of a constructive “atomic bomb”. It is not too difficult to imagine, because each little acorn is such a “constructive bomb” and the oak is only the visible result of the slow “explosion”—or blossoming out—of this “bomb”. Imagine it, and you will have the ideal of the great work or the idea of the Tree of Life. The image itself of the tree comprises the negation of the technical and mechanical element. It is the living synthesis of heaven and earth, it constantly synthesis that which descends from above and that which ascends from below.

Now, the ideal of Hermeticism is contrary to that of science. Instead of aspiring to power over the forces of Nature by means of the destruction of matter, Hermeticism aspires to conscious participation with the constructive forces of the world on the basis of an alliance and a cordial communion with them. Science wants to compel Nature to obedience to the will of man such as it is; Hermeticism—or the philosophy of sacred magic—on the contrary wants to purify, illumine and change the will and nature of man in order to bring them into harmony with the creative principle of Nature (natura naturans) and to render them capable of receiving its willingly bestowed revelation. The “great work”, as an ideal, is therefore the state of the human being who is in peace, alliance, harmony and collaboration with life. This is the “fruit” of the Tree of Life.

—Anonomous (Valentin Tomberg), Meditations on the Tarot: A Journey into Christian Hermeticism (1980)

Two times two is five is sometimes also a most charming little thing.

But man is a frivolous and unseemly being, and perhaps, similar to a chess player, likes only the process of achieving the goal, but not the goal itself. And who knows (one cannot vouch for it), perhaps the whole goal mankind strives for on earth consists just in this ceaselessness of the process of achievement alone, that is to say, in life itself, and not essentially in the goal, which, of course, is bound to be nothing other than two times two is four--that is, a formula; and two times two is four is no longer life, gentlemen, but the beginning of death. At least man has always somehow feared this two times two is four, and I fear it even now. Suppose all man ever does is search for this two times two is four; he crosses oceans, he sacrifices his life in the search; but to search it out, actually to find it--by God, he's somehow afraid. For he senses that once he finds it, there will be nothing to search for. Workers, when they're done working, at least get their pay, go to a pot-house, then wind up with the police--so it keeps them busy for a week. But where is man to go? Something awkward, at any rate, can be noticed in him each time he achieves some such goal. Achieving he likes, but having achieved he does not quite like, and that, of course, is terribly funny. In short, man is comically arranged, there is apparently a joke in all this. But still, two times two is four is a most obnoxious thing. Two times two is four--why, in my opinion, it's sheer impudence, sirs. Two times two is four has a cocky look; it stands across your path, arms akimbo, and spits. I agree that two times two is four is an excellent thing; but if we're going to start praising everything, then two times two is five is sometimes also a most charming little thing.

--Fyodor Dostoevsky (trans. Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky), Notes from Underground (1864) 

The things we couldn't explain

I guess we're all, or most of us, the wards of that nineteenth-century science which denied existence to anything it could not measure or explain. The things we couldn't explain went right on but surely not with our blessing. We did not see what we couldn't explain, and meanwhile a great part of the world was abandoned to children, insane people,  fools, and mystics, who were more interested in what is than in why it is. So many old and lovely things are stored in the world's attic, because we don't want them around us and we don't dare throw them out.

-- John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent (1961)

We must have bodies.

Just three weeks later the physicians of Louisville were at it again. They attempted to rob a grave at the State Asylum for the Insane in Anchorage, Kentucky, this time on behalf of the University of Louisville. "Yes, the party was sent out by us," a senior school official said. "We must have bodies, and if the State won't give them to us we must steal them. The winter classes were large and used up so many subjects that there are none for the spring classes." He saw no need to apologize. "The Asylum Cemetery has been robbed for years," he said, "and I doubt if there is a corpse in it. I tell you we must have bodies. You cannot make doctors without them, and the public must understand it. If we can't get them any other way we will arm the students with Winchester rifles and send them to protect the body-snatchers on their raids."

—Erik Larson, The Devil in the White City (2004)