Incompetence, as a living idea, faded away long ago in the collective memory. The old guild of Incompetents dissolved, giving way to specialization that won its place by arguing a strange creed: it is wiser to know a lot about almost nothing than a little about almost everything. Voices that claim to understand these things insist that science and technology push general knowledge out of reach. So it is better, they say, to master the niche craft of using a seven-piece Allen key than to pretend you grasp the inner workings of a washing machine drum.
In yesterday’s world, the mechanic stood as a national institution. Pepito could be found at the corner bar, toning down clutch troubles on vintage cars, keeping the home corridor free of old clutter, unclogging pipes in neglected bathrooms, and replacing the electric meter spikes. He embodied the neighborhood’s own portable Leonardo, a craftsman in the Franco era who could fix almost anything. The mechanic was always vigilant, always ready, always the person who could provide a fix. Pepito—let’s leave it at that—represents the idea that such a generalist figure once existed. Today, that image has become a rumor more than a reality.
Now, the closest thing Spain has to a memory of that universal handyman is the radio and TV talk show host, a modern syncretist with a toolbox of moral explanations for every topic under the sun: volcanic eruptions and the Kremlin, the Islamic world, terrorism and Brent crude, Real Madrid’s dressing room lore and Eurovision songs. Whatever the subject, the host claims a ready answer, a polished stance, a sense that every problem has a clear label and a swift remedy. The human habit of drawing firm conclusions out of breadthless knowledge remains loud and visible, even when the world grows more intricate.
The author senses that writers have drifted into the same orbit—keepers of a fading ethos. We are a culture that knows a little about a few things and a lot about the warmth of language, the human gesture, and the quiet chambers of feeling; yet we often ignore the larger map. We pretend to have read everything, to have witnessed it all, to possess the decisive insight into every moral puzzle. Writing becomes a way to project wisdom, a shield against uncertainty. A writer may claim mastery over their own notes, guide their imagined creatures, and settle philosophical tensions with a personal system. For the price of certainty, they might even conjure poetry as a gift for the reader’s eyes—the sestina of a pupil’s blue depth, for instance, as a proof of perception rather than experience.
True incompetence may have passed into legend, but the hope endures that humanity will occasionally turn to those who practice a kind of intermittent, reflective ignorance—the idea that literature itself can be a companion on the road to understanding, not a final destination. The long arc suggests that the value of non-expertise lies not in denying knowledge but in resisting the tyranny of overconfidence. In a culture that prizes speed, signals, and neat conclusions, there remains a quiet, stubborn space for doubt, for asking simple questions, and for pausing to listen to the subtler notes of experience. The canon of writers, critics, and thinkers across North America and Europe occasionally reminds readers that the most meaningful insights often arrive from the margins where certainty loosens its grip. This is where curiosity survives, where the mind is allowed to wander, and where genuine learning begins to breathe again. [Citation: general literary discourse on specialization and knowledge]
Ultimately, the notion of incompetence is not a failure but a doorway. It invites people to inspect their assumptions, to welcome questions without fear, and to recognize that mastery can coexist with modesty. If the old mechanic once symbolized competence in a broad sense, today’s readers can still find a humble, humane version of that spirit in the way writers observe the world, admit limits, and tell truths without pretending they contain all answers. There is a value in turning away from the urge to resolve every issue instantly and in learning to live with ambiguity. That acceptance—rather than denial—helps keep culture alive, flexible, and resilient. And in that sense, the intermittent incompetence of literature remains a vital, part-time guide for the curious mind across Canada and the United States alike.