Word: Sagacious

sagacious

[ suh-gey-shuhs ]

adjective

1. Having or showing acute mental discernment and keen practical sense; shrewd: Socrates, that sagacious Greek philosopher, believed that the easiest way to learn was by asking questions.

 

2. Obsolete. having an acute sense of smell.

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               “You know what I should do?” Harry asked.

               Ben felt his eye twitch as he gave the desired response with a heavy sigh.

               “I should write a book.”

               “A book on what?” Ben asked.  He feared he already knew the answer.

               “Philosophy, of course.”

               Of course.  That was the answer Ben was dreading.

               “Please tell me you mean philosophers.”

               “Oh, Ben, Ben, Ben. You know there’s only one philosopher that matters, and that’s Socrates.  And by extension, me.”

               Ben tried not to groan.  He barely succeeded.  How could anyone in their right mind think that he was Socrates reborn?  Not just a past life or something, but the actual person in a different body.  And to make things worse, Harry was not the smartest person in the world, even if he thought he was.

               “Harry, you don’t know anything about philosophy.  How could you write a book about it?”

               “So what if I haven’t studied it?  I don’t need to.  What use is studying when one is a natural born philosopher?”

               “Oh.  You want to write your original ideas.” Ben said heavily. 

               “Naturally.  Whose ideas would I put to page, if not my own?”

               “Someone else’s?  Like, an actual philosopher’s?”

                 “Bah.  Other so-called philosophers are nothing but hacks and imitators.  Only my ideas have merit.”

               “You mean Socrates, right?”

               “What’s the difference?” Ben said with perfect sincerity.

               “A few hundred years for one thing.”

               “Years mean nothing.  After all, what is a year, really?”

               Ben wanted to answer, he really did.  But giving a real, measurable definition for a year would be pointless to someone who thought himself an intellectual. 

               “Okay, let’s hear some of your philosophy.  Let’s hear your ideas on, say, the nature of happiness.”

               “Gladly, my friend, gladly.”

               What followed next could only be described as an insult to Socrates, philosophy, and intelligence in general.  It sounded good, yes.  It sounded deep and thoughtful and clever.  But if one actually listened, that illusion fell apart quickly.  It was nonsensical, contradictory, and had no merit at all.  It actually reminded Ben of the battle of wits from The Princess Bride, in which the supposedly brilliant villain gives a series of almost intelligent reasons for his selection, despite most of them contradicting another, and none leading to the correct answer.

               “And thus, we see the true nature of happiness.” Harry finally finished.  He puffed out his chest with pride.

               Again, Ben wanted to say something.  He was no expert on philosophy.  He knew very little about the subject.  What he did have was actual decent intelligence and basic reasoning skills.  He could poke more holes in Harry’s ideas than swiss cheese.  But that would get him nowhere.  Harry would just call him an idiot, or some variant of the word, probably with a few syllables too many. 

               “Yeah, sure.” Ben said, making sure he put every ounce of disdain and disagreement into his words.  “That was very convincing.”

               “Exactly!” Harry exclaimed.  “My ideas are always perfect, and good and true.  My ideas always encompass the totality of whatever idea I think about.”

               “Uh huh.  You keep thinking that, Harry.  You keep thinking that.”

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If you don't know much about philosophy, then you can start with this.