When I walk through the halls of the great libraries, I am impressed with how little I know. Part of me strains to be able to know more, to be able to claim I know more. When this striving reaches its apex, I can only find relief by admitting to myself that I know very little.
There are two ways about thinking about knowing very little. When I claim to know very little I can do so relative to the amount of knowledge that is to be known, or relative to the knowledge by other men. Sadly, I know that I know very little in comparison with other men.