I am conscious of my inability to grasp, in all its details and

The words of Mikhail Bakunin—“I am conscious of my inability to grasp, in all its details and positive developments, any very large portion of human knowledge.”—shine with the humility of a man who, though fierce in spirit and bold in action, understood the vastness of truth. These words remind us of the eternal tension between the hunger of the mind and the immensity of creation. Knowledge stretches beyond horizons, deeper than oceans, more infinite than the stars themselves. To be conscious of one’s inability is not weakness, but wisdom; for it is the beginning of reverence, of humility, and of honest inquiry.

The ancients long ago recognized this truth. Socrates, the father of philosophy, declared, “I know that I know nothing.” His greatness did not lie in mastery of all things, but in the recognition of his limits. By admitting his ignorance, he opened the door to true learning. Bakunin, centuries later, echoes this same ancient humility: no man, however brilliant, can seize the very large portion of human knowledge. To confess this is not to despair, but to stand in awe of the grandeur of human thought, and to approach it with gratitude rather than arrogance.

History gives us a luminous example in the life of Leonardo da Vinci. He was painter, engineer, anatomist, inventor—a man whose notebooks teem with sketches and questions. Yet even he confessed frustration that life was too short to master all that he wished to know. In him we see the paradox Bakunin names: the more one learns, the more vast the unknown becomes. To strive for knowledge is noble, but to imagine one can possess it fully is folly. Human knowledge is like an endless sky: each star we grasp reveals countless others yet unseen.

Bakunin’s confession also carries a moral weight. For knowledge, when misunderstood, can become a tool of domination, arrogance, and oppression. To remember one’s inability to grasp all details guards the soul against tyranny of thought, against the illusion that one man or one system can claim final authority over truth. Humility, then, becomes not only intellectual but ethical—it allows for dialogue, for freedom, for respect of other voices. The recognition of limits becomes the seed of liberty.

Yet Bakunin does not speak with despair. He acknowledges that though we cannot grasp the whole, we can still partake in the positive developments of knowledge. Each man and woman, though finite, contributes a piece to the great mosaic. One discovers a cure, another composes a symphony, another tills the earth with wisdom. Together, these fragments weave the immense tapestry of civilization. Thus, the inability of one is balanced by the collaboration of many, and humanity advances not by individual mastery but by collective striving.

The lesson for us is clear: embrace the pursuit of knowledge, but clothe it always in humility. Seek learning not to dominate, but to serve. Share what you know, and honor what you do not know. Let the awareness of your limits free you from pride, and let it open your heart to the wisdom of others. Do not shrink from the immensity of truth, but let it fill you with wonder, as the sea fills the sailor with awe.

So, dear listener, carry Bakunin’s wisdom with you. Be bold in learning, but humble in spirit. Stand before the endless ocean of knowledge, and rather than lament that you cannot drink it all, rejoice that you may taste of it at all. For in this humility lies strength, and in this reverence lies the true path of wisdom. And remember always: the wise do not seek to own all knowledge, but to live in harmony with it, adding their small light to the vast constellation of human understanding.