Those brilliant guys made a plane from mud and sticks. It could not fly. It just stood there.
But even a man who could not understand a word of their language; who knew nothing of their way of life; who would never come to visit, - even such a man could see this thing out of his cockpit and know what it meant. And he would translate it, this only thing ever, into his own words and tell others.
Because the plane that never flies is a sign.
We have them polished in museums and rusting in abandoned hangars. There, we imbue them with meaning which is allowed to be personal.
...But you make one life-size model with one single possible interpretation, and suddenly it’s cargo cult.
Those brilliant guys made a plane from mud and sticks. It could not fly. It just stood there.
But even a man who could not understand a word of their language; who knew nothing of their way of life; who would never come to visit, - even such a man could see this thing out of his cockpit and know what it meant. And he would translate it, this only thing ever, into his own words and tell others.
Because the plane that never flies is a sign.
We have them polished in museums and rusting in abandoned hangars. There, we imbue them with meaning which is allowed to be personal.
...But you make one life-size model with one single possible interpretation, and suddenly it’s cargo cult.