“The thing that the king asks is difficult, and no one can show it to the king except the gods, whose dwelling is not with flesh.” They can only rearrange, those magi whose god is their own minds. Taking what is known already, they squint first through this eye then that. Ask for wisdom, they will reply as the king’s itching ear longs to hear. Ask for revelation and they will sigh: “What the king requires is too hard a task!” Wisdom which struts its stuff in the street and basks in its own sun-tanned glory has nothing to say but theories about childhood, masks for its own blankness. True wisdom comes right when we’ve least reason to trust human sight.