Posts Tagged ‘authenticity’

“When All We Know Is Borrowed”

August 29, 2025

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Ricardo Morín
Still Thirty-three: When All We Know Is Borrowed
Oil on linen & board, 15″ x 12″x 1/2″
2012.

Author’s Note:

This essay concludes the trilogy begun with The Colors of Certainty and continued with The Discipline of Doubt. It reflects on perception, ambiguity, and ambivalence as conditions that complicate our access to truth, especially in an age of mistrust. The trilogy as a whole asks how certainty, doubt, and ambivalence each shape the paradoxes of human understanding—and how reality is always encountered in fragments, never in full possession.

The purpose of this essay is not to resolve these tensions but to articulate them. Its value lies less in offering solutions than in clarifying the paradoxes that underlie our shared attempts to understand reality.

Ricardo Morín, Bala Cynwyd, Pa. August 30, 2025.

Abstract:

This essay examines perception, ambiguity, and belief as distinct but interrelated conditions that shape human access to reality.   Ambiguity marks the instability of meaning; perception denotes our filtered and partial contact with the world; and ambivalence names the paradoxical ground on which truth is sought.   Ambivalence sustains the search even as it undermines the certainty that truth has been attained.   Writing and reading reveal these dynamics with particular clarity.   Through writing, thought evolves; the writer participates in this evolution and discovers that meaning may remain both untranslatable and questionable.   Yet this very incompleteness expands understanding, even when what is grasped cannot be fully shared.   Extending beyond communication, the essay suggests that reality itself is encountered only in fragments—through gestures, silences, and misperceptions that weaken the line between appearance and reality.   Artificial intelligence illustrates this condition in two ways:   as a tool, it amplifies practical doubts about authorship and authenticity; as a mirror, it reflects the deeper ambivalence that precedes it.   The essay concludes that ambivalence is not a detour from truth but the paradox through which truth, if it arises at all, briefly appears.

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Perception

The word perception carries within it a history that mirrors the shifting ways in which cultures have understood reality.   From the Latin perceptio, it meant first a “taking in,” a “gathering,” or even a “harvest.”   To perceive was to collect impressions, as one might collect grain from a field: passive in form, but active in intent.

In Greek thought, perception was bound to aisthēsis—sensation was the contact one felt with the world.   Here it stood closer to the arts, to the immediacy of feeling, than to the systematic reasoning of philosophy.

During the Middle Ages, particularly in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, Aristotle’s writings were recovered and incorporated into Christian scholastic thought.   What had been a pagan philosophy of sensation and intellect was reinterpreted by thinkers such as Thomas Aquinas within a theological framework of knowledge.   Perception was defined as the reception of sensory data by the intellect, a necessary stage through which sensation was elevated into understanding.

With the rise of modern philosophy, the term fractured.   For Descartes, perception could deceive;   for Locke, it formed the foundation of experience; for Kant, it was structured by categories that both opened and constrained our access to reality.   By then perception had already become ambivalent:   indispensable for knowing, but never certain in its truth.

Today the word extends further still, connoting not only sensation but also interpretation, bias, and opinion. To say “that is your perception” is no longer to affirm contact with the real but to indicate distance, distortion, or subjectivity. The evolution of the word reveals a semantic instability that parallels the essay’s claim: our access to reality is always shaped by ambivalence. What perception grants, it also unsettles.

Ambivalence, and the Limits of Truth

Perception is never a simple act of receiving what is already there.   It is always mediated by memory, expectation, and predisposition.   In every exchange—whether in words on a page or in silence between two people—meaning shifts, unsettled and provisional.   From this shifting ground arises ambiguity, and from ambiguity, the unease that unsettles belief.

For the reader, this instability is unavoidable.   Every response, even silence, is colored by trust or mistrust, sympathy or suspicion, openness or fatigue.   Rarely does a reader approach a text in innocence, for every act of reading is shaped by assumptions that condition the reception of words.

The author is not exempt from this interpretive burden.   The act of writing does not end with publication but continues in the uncertain work of reading readers.   A pause in conversation, a fleeting acknowledgment, or a lack of reply can be interpreted as disinterest, disapproval, or indifference.   In this way, writing interprets interpretations and multiplies the layers of ambiguity until the meaning of the work appears not only untranslatable but also questionable.   Yet it is precisely through this reflection that writing continues, for without it thought cannot develop.   By persevering in this process, the writer participates in a widening of understanding, even when that understanding cannot be fully shared.

Such uncertainty is not a flaw of communication but part of its structure.   Anyone who seeks to understand through writing must accept that clarity will always be provisional and that expression will always fall short.   The act of putting thought into words reveals the distance between intention and reception, but it also creates the possibility of seeing reality from new angles.   Even when what is expressed cannot be communicated in full, the process itself enlarges understanding and deepens awareness of what is partial and in flux.

Ambivalence, therefore, is not hesitation but the paradoxical condition in which the search for meaning takes place.   It joins conviction and doubt, the desire for certainty and the recognition of its limits.   To write within ambivalence is to continue searching even when the result cannot be communicated without loss.   This condition—and not the illusion of final clarity—enables thought to move forward.

Truth, if it is ever reached, emerges despite the unstable ground of perception and ambiguity.   We arrive at it in spite of ourselves, our tensions, and our limitations.   It is not only major errors that weaken certainty:   a nuance misperceived, a pause misunderstood, or an ambiguous gesture may also diminish trust.   Daily experience shows that the line between appearance and reality is too thin to provide lasting assurance.

But this tension is not limited to writing or reading.   It extends more deeply, into our relation with reality itself.   Ambivalence is not only a feature of communication but also a feature of existence.   To perceive is always to partake of the world incompletely; to live is to do so under conditions of partial presence.   At times we see clearly, at other times dimly, and often not at all.   This rhythm of presence and withdrawal marks every relationship—between persons, between societies, and even between humanity and nature.

Technology has sharpened our awareness of this condition.   Artificial intelligence, for example, dramatizes the instability already present in human perception.   As a tool, it enables refinement of expression while amplifying doubts about authorship and authenticity.   As a mirror, it reflects the deeper ambivalence that precedes it and shapes all mediation.   Thus AI does not diminish thought but magnifies the unease that accompanies human access to reality:   the sense that what is offered is incomplete, unreliable, and never fully participatory.

The task, then, is not to eliminate ambiguity but to recognize it as part of reality itself.   Perception is interpretive, belief is unstable, and mistrust is a constant companion.   Ambivalence is not a detour from truth but the path along which truth—if it comes at all—must travel.   The challenge is not to restore a certainty that never existed but to learn to live within partial participation, to accept that what we call reality is always encountered in fragments.

In this sense, perception, ambiguity, and belief will always remain unsettled.   The writer cannot control how words are read, nor can the reader fully grasp what was meant.   No one can claim full possession of reality.   Every relation to the world depends on fragile conditions, where appearance and reality touch without ever coinciding.   If truth appears at all, it does so briefly and incompletely, arising only through ambivalence.   Yet ambivalence itself is a paradoxical condition:   it sustains our search for truth even as it undermines the certainty we long to possess.   Truth cannot confer ownership because it never rests.

Annotated Bibliography

  • Arendt, Hannah: The Human Condition. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1958. (Arendt analyzes action, labor, and work as distinct ways of engaging reality. Her distinction between appearance and reality, and her insistence that truth emerges through shared human activity, is directly relevant to the essay’s theme of perception and ambivalence.)
  • Gadamer, Hans-Georg: Truth and Method. New York: Continuum, 1975. (In this foundational text in hermeneutics, Gadamer explores how understanding arises through interpretation rather than objectivity. His view that truth is approached dialogically supports the essay’s claim that truth emerges “within ambivalence rather than beyond it.”)
  • Girard, René: Deceit, Desire, and the Novel. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1965. (Girard’s theory of mimetic desire shows how interpretation, desire, and misunderstanding shape human relations. His work underlines the fragility of belief and the unstable boundary between appearance and reality.)
  • Nussbaum, Martha: Political Emotions: Why Love Matters for Justice. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013. (Nussbaum argues that public emotions—such as love, compassion, and solidarity—are essential to sustaining justice. Her insights reveal how belief is fragile and shaped by interpretation; it resonates with the essay’s concern about trust, ambivalence, and human participation in reality.)
  • Turkle, Sherry: Alone Together: Why We Expect More from Technology and Less from Each Other. New York: Basic Books, 2011. (Turkle investigates how technology mediates human relationships and perceptions. Her work frames AI as a mirror of doubt; it shows how mediation both enables connection and erodes authenticity—an idea central to the essay.)

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“The Ethics of Expression, Part II”

June 13, 2025

Writing, silence, and the art of understanding in stillness

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Ricardo Morín
Triangulation 4
22″ x 30″
Graphite on paper
2006

To my sister Bonnie

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Ricardo F. Morín

June 2025

Oakland Park, Florida

Author’s Note

This reflection was originally drafted before The Ethics of Perception, Part I, yet it belongs to the same inquiry into attention, understanding, and ethical relation.

There are moments when the truest form of intimacy is silence.
At other times, it’s the quiet labor of reaching for the right word—however incomplete—that brings us closer.
Expression, in this light, is not just a vehicle for communication, but an act of care.

To speak, to withhold, to write, to listen—each choice carries a particular weight.   
Intimacy lives in these gestures:    not in grand declarations, but in the ethics of how we reveal ourselves—and how we receive what another dares to offer.
What follows is not a theory, but a reflection on how intimacy appears in expression—and in its absence.

I. Prelude:    in the pause between words

It’s hard to pinpoint the moment when something becomes intimate.
It isn’t always a touch, or a glance, or even a confession.
Sometimes, it’s just a pause—a shared pause—between one word and the next, when both people sense that something true is either about to be said or has just been said, without quite naming it.

Once, sitting face to face, I watched someone I cared for stare silently out the window.
I said nothing either.
There was no gesture, no disclosure, no clarifying words.
And yet the silence didn’t feel empty—it felt full.
In that stillness, something passed between us—not a message, not even an understanding, but a kind of permission:

To exist without explanation.
To be present without having to perform.

That moment stayed with me not because it was dramatic, but because it was unplanned.
I hadn’t expected it, and I couldn’t have recreated it.
I only knew, afterward, that I had been in the presence of something rare:
an intimacy that asked nothing more than to be.

And yet, not all intimacy is born in silence or in someone else’s presence.
Some comes later, through writing—in that long interval between feeling and saying.
Some is only possible thanks to the quiet distance that makes reflection possible.

II. What we mean when we say “intimate”

The word intimacy often evokes physical closeness:
the realm of touch, proximity, lovers, secrets shared in the dark.
But what if intimacy were less about closeness than about permission?
The permission to be undefended.
To move slowly.
To be unclear—and still be trusted.

To be intimate with someone is not merely to be known, but to be seen—
seen without the pressure to explain yourself quickly or justify what you feel.
It’s an opening, and it’s also a risk:
the risk of being misunderstood, and the deeper risk of being understood too well.

Some forms of intimacy unfold face to face.
Others require distance.
Some happen through dialogue.
Others need a single voice, speaking on one’s own in a quiet room.

That’s where writing begins—
not as performance, but as a long conversation, uninterrupted.

III. The varieties of intimacy

Intimacy shifts with context, with time,
with the shape of the self we bring to another.
It is not one thing—
not just closeness, or tenderness, or vulnerability—
but a set of ways we allow ourselves to be known,
and sometimes, to know another.

There’s the intimacy of the body—
perhaps the most visible and least understood.
It belongs to touch, proximity,
the instinctive draw toward another’s presence.
But this form can deceive:
physical closeness without emotional resonance is common—
and easily faked.
Yet when body and emotion align,
there’s a wordless attunement:
a hand resting on a shoulder for just the right amount of time;
a breath falling into rhythm without intention.

Then there’s emotional intimacy:
the slow courage to say what one feels—
not just when it’s beautiful or convenient,
but when it’s awkward, incomplete, or raw.
This kind of intimacy isn’t given—it’s earned.
It may take years, or a single night.
Trust lives here—or breaks.

There’s also intellectual intimacy:
what arises in conversation
when ideas flow without anyone guarding their ground.
It’s rare.
Most social spaces reward speed,
the need to shine, or the safety of politeness.
But sometimes, with someone equally curious,
thought expands in the presence of the other—
not in agreement, but in response.
There’s nothing to prove—
only the pleasure of discovery.
That’s intellectual intimacy.
It creates a different kind of closeness—
not of feeling, but of perception.

Stranger still is narrative intimacy—
the kind that forms not between two people in the same room,
but between the one who writes and the one who reads,
separated by silence and time.
It isn’t immediate—
but it isn’t less real.
A voice emerges from the page
and seems to speak directly to you,
as if it knew the contours of your mind.
You feel understood—without being seen.
You may never meet the person who wrote those words,
but something in you shifts.
You are no longer alone.

These are not rigid categories.
They overlap, interrupt, evoke one another.
One may deepen another.
Physical presence can create emotional safety.
Intellectual closeness can open into unexpected tenderness.
And still, each has its own rhythm,
its own grammar—
and its own risks.

In that complexity, intimacy ceases to be a condition.
It becomes a practice:
something we learn,
lose,
revise,
and sometimes write
when no other form is possible.

IV. Writing as intimacy with oneself (and with another)

Writing, too, is a kind of intimacy—
not only with others,
but with oneself.
Especially when it’s honest—
when what’s written is not just clever or correct,
but true.
That kind of writing doesn’t flatter.
It doesn’t argue.
It reveals.

We write to bring something forth—
not just for an audience,
but to hear ourselves think,
to see what we didn’t yet know we felt.
In writing, we become witnesses to our own consciousness—
both its lucidity and its evasions.

We follow a sentence
not only for its logic,
but for the feeling it carries.
And when that feeling falters,
we know we’ve lost the thread.

So we begin again, and again—
trying not just to explain,
but to say something that feels just.

In that sense, writing is an ethical act.
It demands attention.
It requires patience.
It invites us to inhabit our own experience
with precision—
even when that experience is fragmented or unresolved.

And if we are lucky—
if we are honest—
something in that effort will reach someone else.
Not to impress.
Not to convince.
But to accompany.

V. When intimacy fails or is refused

Sometimes you reach out—carefully, sincerely—and receive silence, indifference, or a response so misaligned it makes you feel naïve for having tried.
Other times, the failure is subtler:
a conversation that scatters just as something real begins to take shape—or a listener who hears your words, but not your meaning.

Those moments stay with us.
Not because they’re dramatic, but because they remind us how precarious intimacy can be.
It can’t be forced—just as humility can’t.
Both require a quiet letting go—a willingness to offer something without knowing how it will be received.
We can prepare the ground, make the gesture, risk the truth—but the rest depends on the other: their timing, their capacity, their willingness to meet us there.

There’s also the experience of being misunderstood—not just in fact, but in essence.
You try to say something that matters, and the other person responds to what they think you said—or to a version of you that never was.
It’s a blow—
that mismatch between what you tried to share and what actually landed.
The desire for intimacy becomes exposure without connection—a wound instead of a bridge.

Sometimes we avoid intimacy not because we don’t want it, but because we fear what it might cost.
We’ve been made to feel clumsy—for caring too much, or for being too visible.
Or we’ve shared something intimate, only to have it treated lightly—or analyzed without feeling.
After that, we grow cautious.
We speak less—or in fragments—or not at all.

It’s in the wake of such rejections—large or small—that writing ceases to be mere expression.
It becomes repair.
Writing allows us to recover what was lost in the moment—
to name what never reached its destination,
to finish the thought no one waited for,
to say it again—this time without interruption, without assumptions, without fear.

And while writing cannot undo the failure of a shared moment, it can offer something else:
coherence.
A record.
A form of truth that endures—even if it wasn’t heard.

In this way, writing becomes a quiet act of insistence—not against the world, but on behalf of the self.
It’s a way of saying:
What I tried to share still matters—even if it wasn’t received.

VI. The gesture that remains

In the end, intimacy is not a state but a gesture—
repeated again and again—
toward understanding,
toward presence,
toward a shared sense that may arrive… or may not.

Sometimes that gesture is a word spoken at the right moment.
Sometimes it’s a silence held just long enough for the other to speak.
And sometimes it’s the act of writing—solitary, patient, unfinished—
offered not to a crowd,
but to a single imagined reader
who, one day, might need what you are now trying to say.

Writing, at its core, is a form of listening.
Not only to others,
but to the self that doesn’t rush,
doesn’t perform,
doesn’t need to persuade.

To the self that waits—
that wants to be known not by what it manages to say in quick response,
but by what it keeps trying to say with care.

That’s why I return to the page:
not because it guarantees connection,
but because it keeps the door open.
Because in a world that demands speed, certainty, and charm,
writing makes room for something slower and more faithful:
the long, unfinished gesture of trying to reach someone—
perhaps even oneself—
with something resonant.

And when intimacy happens—on the page or in life—
it’s never because we found the perfect words.
It’s because someone stayed.
Someone listened.
Someone let the moment open—without rushing to close it.

That’s what I’m doing now:
writing not to end something,
but to leave it open—
so that something of greater consequence might enter.

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Ricardo F Morín Tortolero

Capitol Hill, D.C., June 9, 2025

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