“I don’t know” is half of knowledge

When someone asks us a question about money and we’re not certain of the answer, what do we do?

Do we admit that we do not know, or do we assemble bits and pieces into something that sounds like an answer?

Sometimes I’ll read an article about a field I know very little about and come away feeling surprisingly well informed. I follow the explanation and think I’ve understood the subject. Then someone asks a question the article didn’t cover, and I realize how little I actually know.

In a 2014 New York Times essay, Karl Taro Greenfeld called this “faking cultural literacy.” He described how easy it had become to gather fragments from headlines and social media and then speak as though we understood the thing itself.

That was twelve years ago, when the quickest way to find an answer was to Google it, open an article, and repeat some version of its title and subtitle. Ancient times.

An answer for everything

Today, I can give an AI tool a specific question and receive a polished, tailored answer within seconds. I can ask it to explain an unfamiliar subject, compare two choices, or apply a general idea to my particular situation. I no longer need to gather the fragments myself. They arrive already organized into something that sounds complete.

All of this makes faking literacy easier. An answer has never been easier to obtain.

But having an answer is not the same thing as understanding it. We can repeat an explanation, offer an opinion, and move through a conversation without noticing how little of it we could explain or defend on our own.

With a book we have not read or a television show we have not watched, faking literacy might leave us embarrassed. With money, we might recommend an investment to someone we care about without understanding it ourselves. And they might act on our advice.

“I don’t know” is half of knowledge

Admitting that we don’t know can feel uncomfortable.

Our tradition treats that admission differently.

Al-Shaʿbī (d. 104 AH / 722 CE), one of the great scholars of the generation after the Companions, said, “‘I don’t know’ is half of knowledge.”

A thousand years later, the Ottoman scholar Sajaqlizade (d. 1145 AH / 1732–33 CE), commenting on this saying, explained it through the distinction between simple and compound ignorance.

Simple ignorance is when I do not know something and I know that I do not know it. There is a gap in my understanding, but at least I can see it.

That kind of ignorance can be repaired. I can ask a question, read, listen, or seek help from someone who understands the subject.

Compound ignorance is when I do not know, but I believe that I do. This is much harder to repair because I have no reason to ask and no reason to listen. The answer already occupying my mind leaves little room for a better one.

As Sajaqlizade explains, “Whoever says ‘I don’t know’ has recognized his ignorance of the matter; what remains is to learn the matter itself.”

I’ve begun to open my community presentations by sharing this insight from our tradition. It grounds us and prepares us to learn. And it’s a reminder to myself as much as to anyone listening.

Recognizing what we don’t know is already a form of self-knowledge.

Perhaps that is our half of knowledge: knowing where we need to begin.