The Snark | The Man Who Knew... Everything?

John Stuart Mill: The Man Who Knew Everything... Except Dinosaurs

Ah, John Stuart Mill. The man, the myth, the guy who supposedly "knew everything." At least, that’s how the romanticized version of him goes. With his vast intellect and his Victorian-era ability to juggle economics, philosophy, politics, and, I don’t know, probably how to tie a perfect bow tie, Mill’s reputation has been dusted off by history as the last true polymath. But let’s be real here: if you look closely, Mill might not have been the all-knowing oracle people imagine him to be. In fact, he probably didn’t know much about dinosaurs. And that’s just the beginning of his intellectual limitations.

Mill: The Victim of Bad Timing

First off, let’s talk about Mill’s timing. He was born in 1806, right smack in the middle of the Napoleonic Wars. A guy born into the early 19th century can only know as much as his world lets him. While Mill was busy crafting his ideas on utilitarianism and individual liberty, you know who was out there quietly minding their own business? The dinosaurs. That’s right. Mill didn’t even have a clue that one day we’d be digging up fossils of creatures that were long extinct. His world, while intellectually rich, hadn’t yet reached the age of paleontological enlightenment. He wasn’t walking around thinking about T. rex or velociraptors because, frankly, they didn’t even exist in his world of thought. A bit of a bummer if you ask me.

So, if you're going to argue that Mill "knew everything," maybe you should consider the fact that he didn’t know what was literally lying under his feet. The whole prehistoric world? Invisible to him. Imagine him trying to digest the Theory of Evolution after Darwin published The Origin of Species. You think Mill would have just snapped that up and reworked it into his utilitarian framework? Yeah, no. Mill may have been the last person to try to encompass everything, but dinosaurs? Not on his radar.

The “Everything” Problem: Mill’s Intellectual Empire

Now, let’s talk about the "everything" part. Mill was undoubtedly well-read, a titan of his time. He dabbled in everything from political philosophy to economics, moral theory to social justice. But was he the last man who could really say he "knew everything"? Hardly. His intellectual empire, as grand as it was, was still a limited construct, firmly grounded in the Western world and the intellectual framework of 19th-century Europe. Sure, Mill read extensively about ancient civilizations and foreign lands, but when it came to the far-flung peoples of the world—those beyond the British Empire—his knowledge was, at best, superficial. Colonialism wasn’t exactly a side hobby for him; it was the foundation of his worldview.

Let’s say Mill did try to understand cultures outside the European tradition. His analysis would likely have been framed by the same attitudes that defined the imperial mindset of the time: Europeans were civilized, the rest of the world was... well, not. So, the idea that Mill was some sort of omniscient figure who could perfectly comprehend all human societies? Please. He was almost there, but the empire-colored glasses kept him from seeing the whole picture.

Mill and His Blind Spot: Dinosaurs and Distant Civilizations

Let's go back to dinosaurs for a second, because it’s fun to imagine Mill stumbling upon the fossil record in his study. Imagine him sitting in front of the bones of a long-dead beast and pondering, "What does this tell me about human progress?" Maybe he’d even try to work it into his theories of happiness and liberty. But let’s be real: the thought of a massive extinct creature just chilling in the past? Mill didn’t have the luxury of that knowledge, which means his intellectual monopoly over "everything" has a giant hole in it.

And that blind spot wasn’t just reserved for prehistoric creatures. Mill’s grasp on distant cultures was limited by the information that was available in his time. He wasn’t exactly flipping through travel guides for remote Asian, African, or Indigenous cultures. Instead, he was reading colonial reports, which were about as unbiased as a Fox News special on modern-day empires. To put it bluntly, Mill didn’t “know everything,” he knew the stuff that was filtered through a very specific lens: Western civilization’s triumphs and struggles.

The Legacy of "Knowing Everything": A Bit Overrated, Really

Let’s give Mill credit where credit is due. His contributions to philosophy, economics, and social theory are monumental. But the whole "he knew everything" narrative is a bit of a stretch. Sure, he might have been the intellectual celebrity of his time, but even he had his limits. Dinosaurs? No. Far-flung cultures beyond the Empire? Also, no. If Mill were alive today, he’d probably be the first to tell you that the idea of knowing everything was a quaint and dangerous illusion. The fact that we now have entire fields of study devoted to niche topics—paleontology, anthropology, quantum physics—shows that, maybe, it’s okay for one person not to know everything. In fact, it might be healthier that way.

So, while Mill might have been the closest thing to an all-knowing intellectual in his time, he was, in reality, just another guy living in an era of limited information. Don’t get me wrong, his work is still vital today. But the idea that he "knew everything" is a modern myth. Maybe we should lay off the whole "Mill knew all" bit and acknowledge that even the greatest thinkers of history had their blind spots—including dinosaurs.

Fiction Writers: The “Idiotically Smart” Truth

Now, let’s take a moment for the writers among us. Here’s the deal: if you think you’re any different from Mill, think again. As much as we like to think of ourselves as “writers of everything,” we are just as full of blind spots as Mill was. In fact, we might even be a little more full of them, because we’re trying to create worlds, characters, and universes that often stretch beyond our expertise. Think you’ve mastered character development? Sure, until you realize your villain's motivations are as flat as a pancake. Nailed your plot? Oh wait, why does your climax feel like a limp handshake? You’re "idiotically smart"—you have all the knowledge, but you also have giant blind spots.

And that’s okay! The beauty of fiction is that we get to explore those gaps, to discover the things we didn’t know we didn’t know. Just as Mill couldn’t have predicted the rise of dinosaurs (or modern anthropology, or space exploration, or Twitter), we, too, are stumbling through the fog of our own intellectual limitations. So, when you find yourself staring at your manuscript and thinking, “I have no idea what I’m doing,” rest assured: you’re in good company. Even the greatest minds were idiotically smart—and that’s what made their work so interesting.

The Snark