In another part of the galaxy, time had also changed its pace.
A ship emerged from hyperspace at an indistinct point somewhere between the center of one galaxy and the edge of another, changed course, and reentered hyperspace. A man sat in meditation, parting the curtains of reality as he moved between planes of understanding. Time also seemed changed to this man. But he was accustomed to the capriciousness of time, and rather than dwell upon it, he ignored its passage.
What is truth?
The truth, he had come to understand, was something that we chose to believe. The only real truth was that there is no truth, because even that was a lie. He had also come to understand that right and wrong did not exist, while at the same time they did. In a grand cosmic sense, the ideas of right and wrong were simply constructs which we used to justify our actions and make our decisions.
His thoughts always returned to the classic question that was posed to schoolchildren of every species:
A man's wife is very ill with a disease that bacta cannot cure. In fact, there is only one remedy in the whole galaxy, and it is relatively inexpensive to manufacture. But it is being sold at an exhorbiant price for the manufacturer's profit. Was it wrong for the man to break into the med station, destroy the guard droid, and steal the medication?
As a child, he had said that stealing was wrong and so was the man. As a teenager, he had said that saving the man's wife was more important the the law, so the man was right. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he had never felt comfortable with those answers. Such distinctions of right and wrong had never completely satisfied him. And now, no longer a child and infinitely the wiser with the knowledge of how little he really understood, he had discovered the answer to the question.
What the man had done was neither right nor wrong; it contained elements of both, but it was impossible, and pointless, to attempt to weigh them and discover whether the action was more of one or the other. Right and wrong were irrelevant in that situation: the point was that the man had chosen a course of action that produced a particular result. The judgement of the morality of his actions was extraneous.
But at the same time, he believed that right and wrong did still exist and could still be important, vital even. For instance, he believed that it was wrong to steal something simply out of desire. But where, he wondered, does that line of distinction lie, between the black and white of right and wrong and the gray where it didn't matter? Had it been right or wrong of him to refuse to fight, to refuse to use the Force for agression? Maybe, like the man in the story, his actions had been neither. But why?
Yet even as he asked himself these questions, and marveled at his new understanding, he had an inkling that perhaps the answers weren't so easy as this. That perhaps the truth couldn't be gleaned from something so simple as a child's tale of morality. He felt that he was missing something, passing by it, catching a glimpse from the corner of his eye, but unable to focus on it clearly. What it was, though, he had no idea. But perhaps his knowledge that he did not fully understand the answers to these questions was as important as the answers themselves.
The truth is always greater than the words we use to describe it. He heard a whisper float through his mind.
"Deep thoughts, young Solo." A voice cut through his thoughts, and the threads of truth and untruth that he had begun to weave into something resembling understanding unraveled and slipped away.
"When the teacher mocks," he answered slowly, as his eyes slid open, "it becomes difficult for the student to learn."
"Mock? I do not mock, I only observe."
He took a deep breath, " Right. If you say so." He stretched his arms above his head and yawned. "How long until we arrive?"
"Several hours. Bored?" she asked.
"With a teacher like you, how could I be?" he countered, "I always have to fear for my life."
She said nothing, but the feathers on her head rippled and faded into a deep orange, and he had the distinct impression that she was fighting amusement. She turned and walked out of the chambers, and he returned once again to his thoughts. He searched for that elusive line between right and wrong and neither, and wondered whether it even existed, as their ship hurtled through hyperspace.
A ship emerged from hyperspace at an indistinct point somewhere between the center of one galaxy and the edge of another, changed course, and reentered hyperspace. A man sat in meditation, parting the curtains of reality as he moved between planes of understanding. Time also seemed changed to this man. But he was accustomed to the capriciousness of time, and rather than dwell upon it, he ignored its passage.
What is truth?
The truth, he had come to understand, was something that we chose to believe. The only real truth was that there is no truth, because even that was a lie. He had also come to understand that right and wrong did not exist, while at the same time they did. In a grand cosmic sense, the ideas of right and wrong were simply constructs which we used to justify our actions and make our decisions.
His thoughts always returned to the classic question that was posed to schoolchildren of every species:
A man's wife is very ill with a disease that bacta cannot cure. In fact, there is only one remedy in the whole galaxy, and it is relatively inexpensive to manufacture. But it is being sold at an exhorbiant price for the manufacturer's profit. Was it wrong for the man to break into the med station, destroy the guard droid, and steal the medication?
As a child, he had said that stealing was wrong and so was the man. As a teenager, he had said that saving the man's wife was more important the the law, so the man was right. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he had never felt comfortable with those answers. Such distinctions of right and wrong had never completely satisfied him. And now, no longer a child and infinitely the wiser with the knowledge of how little he really understood, he had discovered the answer to the question.
What the man had done was neither right nor wrong; it contained elements of both, but it was impossible, and pointless, to attempt to weigh them and discover whether the action was more of one or the other. Right and wrong were irrelevant in that situation: the point was that the man had chosen a course of action that produced a particular result. The judgement of the morality of his actions was extraneous.
But at the same time, he believed that right and wrong did still exist and could still be important, vital even. For instance, he believed that it was wrong to steal something simply out of desire. But where, he wondered, does that line of distinction lie, between the black and white of right and wrong and the gray where it didn't matter? Had it been right or wrong of him to refuse to fight, to refuse to use the Force for agression? Maybe, like the man in the story, his actions had been neither. But why?
Yet even as he asked himself these questions, and marveled at his new understanding, he had an inkling that perhaps the answers weren't so easy as this. That perhaps the truth couldn't be gleaned from something so simple as a child's tale of morality. He felt that he was missing something, passing by it, catching a glimpse from the corner of his eye, but unable to focus on it clearly. What it was, though, he had no idea. But perhaps his knowledge that he did not fully understand the answers to these questions was as important as the answers themselves.
The truth is always greater than the words we use to describe it. He heard a whisper float through his mind.
"Deep thoughts, young Solo." A voice cut through his thoughts, and the threads of truth and untruth that he had begun to weave into something resembling understanding unraveled and slipped away.
"When the teacher mocks," he answered slowly, as his eyes slid open, "it becomes difficult for the student to learn."
"Mock? I do not mock, I only observe."
He took a deep breath, " Right. If you say so." He stretched his arms above his head and yawned. "How long until we arrive?"
"Several hours. Bored?" she asked.
"With a teacher like you, how could I be?" he countered, "I always have to fear for my life."
She said nothing, but the feathers on her head rippled and faded into a deep orange, and he had the distinct impression that she was fighting amusement. She turned and walked out of the chambers, and he returned once again to his thoughts. He searched for that elusive line between right and wrong and neither, and wondered whether it even existed, as their ship hurtled through hyperspace.