A Word on Statistics

The article I posted about yesterday contained lots of disturbing statistics. As is the way with me, I was then reminded about this poem by Wislawa Szymborska entitled 'A Word on Statistics'. Whilst not a prolific poet, or it seems, widely known, she did win the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1996:

Out of every hundred people,

those who always know better:
fifty two.

Unsure of every step:
almost all the rest.

Ready to help,
if it doesn't take long:
forty nine.

Always good,
because they cannot be otherwise:
four, well, maybe five.

Able to admire without envy:
eighteen.

Led to error
by youth (which passes):
sixty, plus or minus.

Those not to be messed with:
four and forty.

Living in constant fear
of someone or something:
seventy seven.

Capable of happiness:
twenty-some-odd at most.

Harmless alone
turning savage in crowds:
more than half, for sure.

Cruel,
when forced by circumstances:
it's better not to know,
not even approximately.

Wise in hindsight:
not many more
than wise in foresight.

Getting nothing out of life except 'things':
thirty
(although I would like to be wrong).

Doubled over in pain
and without a flashlight in the dark:
eighty three,
sooner or later.

Those who are just:
quite a few,
at thirty five.

But if it takes effort to understand:
three.

Worthy of empathy:
ninety-nine.

Mortal:
one hundred out of one hundred-
a figure that has never varied yet.

From the Miracle Fair Collection translated by Joanna Trzeciak