The Land of the Scientists

Better to take pleasure in a rose than to put its root under a microscope.

—from “The Truth of Masks” by Oscar Wilde

Now I’m lost in the Land of the Scientists. Can you hear this message that I’m broadcasting thru my walkie-talkie? I’m stepping out of my spaceship, which resembles a giant beaker. (The ship is filled with exotic entities that I’ve collected during my intergalactic travels.) 

I’ve never seen a realm as desolate as this one: Everyone here wears white smocks and big thick black glasses. Each inhabitant remains incessantly scribbling on his own chalkboard, teaching lessons in physics to a class without attendees. All are preoccupied with calculating incredible sums. There are digits everywhere, and exponents in superscript. Spanning across the entry gate of this Land of the Scientists is their motto:

Forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,

Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two,
     and which is ahead!

Convoluted tables and charts riddle the atmosphere, along with the carcasses of mice, monkeys, and frogs. We see a jar full of hearts next to some Bunsen burners and protective goggles. Diagrams and scale models are omnipresent, as are flagons of toxic chemicals; and, everywhere one turns, one sees portraits of Aristotle. — Each citizen wears a label on his lab coat (all are men here, especially the women) which proclaims his scientific specialty: We find Meteorologists, Nuclear Physicists, an abundance of Urologists, also Chemists, Botanists & Geologists. There’s even a shantytown for Psychologists. 

“We follow the light of scientifical truth,” says one of the natives during an interview, when we ask the inhabitants to explain to us the culture and purpose of the Land of the Scientists. “We formulate a hypothesis,” the same native continues, “and then we test it on you. If you fall over and die or develop a rash, we take that into account by noting it down on a sheet of graph paper.” 

Veritably, in the Land of the Scientists, reason is God. Everyone speaks in monotone, and nobody sings.