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Counter-examples are legion, of course, but of all the vacuities a [[legal eagle]] can commit to a page, none is quite so pointless as this:
Counter-examples are legion, of course, but of all the vacuities a [[legal eagle]] can commit to a page, none is quite so pointless as this:


“[[This page is intentionally left blank]]”.
“[[This page is intentionally left blank]].”


Beyond dispensing with the concern that there might be writing on it that you just can’t see, what could this mean?
Beyond dispensing with the concern that there might be writing on it that you just can’t see, what could this mean?


Should we differentiate a ''wantonly'' blank page from one whose lack of content arose from a weaker mental conviction? Might the author have been merely reckless<ref>in that the author apprehended the risk the page would be bare and took it anyway.</ref> or negligent<ref> in that a reasonable person in the author’s position would have realised there was a risk the page would be blank</ref>? or could it have been blameless inadvertence, the redundant page being overlooked through no cognitive operation, actual or constructive, on the author’s part at all?
Does it distinguish a ''wantonly'' blank page from one whose lack of content came about from a feebler conviction? (Recklessness<ref>in that the author apprehended the risk the page would be bare and took it anyway.</ref>, for example, or negligence<ref>In that a reasonable person in the author’s position would have realised there was a risk the page would be blank</ref> in omitting to put anything on a page? Could the redundant page have been overlooked through no cognitive operation, actual or constructive, on the author’s part at all?


Agonising over the writer’s mens rea obscures the real question: WHO CARES? What difference does it make why a page is blank? It is blank: that is an existential fact<ref>Or is it? See below.</ref>.  
Agonising over the writer’s [[mens rea]] obscures the real question: WHO CARES? What difference does it make why the page is blank? It ‘’is'' blank: that is a brute existential fact<ref>Or would be, had you not written that very thing on the page to contradict yourself. See below.</ref>.  


Like [[the blind man in the dark room looking for the black cat that isn’t there]], the semantic content of an empty page is precisely nothing. It is neither action not omission, but a formless void; inert; lacking the divine breath of a creator. It is neither [[alpha]] nor [[omega]], nor anything between.  
A [[mediocre lawyer|diligent student]] pipes up from the back: “But, why, can’t you see? It is an omission. It is the ''failure to say something''. A fellow can infringe her neighbour’s rights by omission just as well as she can by action.”


Even now I can hear a [[mediocre lawyer|diligent student]] piping up from the back: “But, why, can’t you see? It is an omission. It is the failure to say something. A merchant can infringe another’s rights by perfidious omission just as well as she can by malfeasant action.”
''Au contraire.''


Just so. But even then it will take more than a sheet of blank paper to do for her. An unmarked sheet, of itself, is no dog that fails to bark in the night time. It conveys no premise, and without one of those, permits no conclusion of [[any type or kind]]. An omission to say this or that cannot be imprisoned within the margins of an empty page: it is universal: it inhabits every page, however densely entexted, on which the thing wasn’t said; in every breath of air on which the utterance did not pass.  
The semantic content of an empty page is null. It is neither action not omission, but a formless void; inert; lacking the divine breath of a creator. It is neither [[alpha]] nor [[omega]], nor anything between. An unmarked sheet is not a dog that fails to bark in the night time. It conveys no premise and permits no conclusion of [[any type or kind]]. An ''omission'' to say this or that cannot be imprisoned within the margins of an empty page: it is universal: it inhabits every page, however densely entexted, on which the thing is not said; it rides upon every breath on which the utterance does not pass.  


So however you wish to construe it, be in no doubt, dear reader: the page is joyously, wilfully, defiantly, and with the publisher’s unequivocal endorsement, blank.
To paraphrase a British Prime Minister, “[[Brexit means Brexit|a blank page means a blank page]]”.Be in no doubt, dear reader: This statement, like the page it decorates, is joyously, wilfully, defiantly —and with the publisher’s unequivocal endorsement — ''blank’'. [[For the avoidance of doubt]].


Except - and it brings no pleasure to point this out, but here goes - since someone dolloped that whopping great wodge of italicised, square-bracketed text right in the middle of it, it isn’t blank.
Except — and it brings no pleasure to point the glaringly obvious out, but here goes — as soon as one dollops a great wodge of italicised, square-bracketed text right in the middle of a page, IT IS NOT BLANK.


Which brings us to a fine old pickle. We seem to have hit a patch of legal quantum indeterminacy. If one can only be certain a page is meant to be blank by writing on it, can we ever be sure of anything ever again? What would Descartes think? He would need at least to think about it.<ref>can’t you just imagine him, sitting on his chair, stroking Schrödinger’s cat?</ref> Scribo “non”, ergo non scribo, he might conclude.
This puts us in a fine old pickle. If the only way we can be certain a page is blank is by writing on it, can we ever be sure of anything ever again? Have we hit a kind of Russell’s paradox<ref>Let R be the set of all sets that are not members of themselves. If R is itself not a member of itself, then it must contain itself. If it contains itself, then it cannot be a member of the set of all sets that are not members of themselves</ref> of the law? We seem to have hit a patch of legal quantum indeterminacy. What would Descartes think? Or Gödel? Can’t you just imagine Schrödinger, sitting on his chair, stroking his cat?


 
[[Scribo “non”, ergo non scribo]].
Q: How do you confuse a ditch-digger?
A: Give him three shovels, and tell him to take his pick.
 
Q: how do you confuse a mediocre lawyer
A: give him a blank sheet of paper and write “this page has been intentionally left blank” on it.


{{plainenglish}}
{{plainenglish}}


{{Ref}}
{{Ref}}

Revision as of 22:51, 31 December 2016

It is a founding premise of legal inquiry that one does not waste words: words one has gone to the trouble of inserting, one must mean something by.

Counter-examples are legion, of course, but of all the vacuities a legal eagle can commit to a page, none is quite so pointless as this:

“This page is intentionally left blank.”

Beyond dispensing with the concern that there might be writing on it that you just can’t see, what could this mean?

Does it distinguish a wantonly blank page from one whose lack of content came about from a feebler conviction? (Recklessness[1], for example, or negligence[2] in omitting to put anything on a page? Could the redundant page have been overlooked through no cognitive operation, actual or constructive, on the author’s part at all?

Agonising over the writer’s mens rea obscures the real question: WHO CARES? What difference does it make why the page is blank? It ‘’is blank: that is a brute existential fact[3].

A diligent student pipes up from the back: “But, why, can’t you see? It is an omission. It is the failure to say something. A fellow can infringe her neighbour’s rights by omission just as well as she can by action.”

Au contraire.

The semantic content of an empty page is null. It is neither action not omission, but a formless void; inert; lacking the divine breath of a creator. It is neither alpha nor omega, nor anything between. An unmarked sheet is not a dog that fails to bark in the night time. It conveys no premise and permits no conclusion of any type or kind. An omission to say this or that cannot be imprisoned within the margins of an empty page: it is universal: it inhabits every page, however densely entexted, on which the thing is not said; it rides upon every breath on which the utterance does not pass.

To paraphrase a British Prime Minister, “a blank page means a blank page”.Be in no doubt, dear reader: This statement, like the page it decorates, is joyously, wilfully, defiantly —and with the publisher’s unequivocal endorsement — blank’'. For the avoidance of doubt.

Except — and it brings no pleasure to point the glaringly obvious out, but here goes — as soon as one dollops a great wodge of italicised, square-bracketed text right in the middle of a page, IT IS NOT BLANK.

This puts us in a fine old pickle. If the only way we can be certain a page is blank is by writing on it, can we ever be sure of anything ever again? Have we hit a kind of Russell’s paradox[4] of the law? We seem to have hit a patch of legal quantum indeterminacy. What would Descartes think? Or Gödel? Can’t you just imagine Schrödinger, sitting on his chair, stroking his cat?

Scribo “non”, ergo non scribo.

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References

  1. ↑ in that the author apprehended the risk the page would be bare and took it anyway.
  2. ↑ In that a reasonable person in the author’s position would have realised there was a risk the page would be blank
  3. ↑ Or would be, had you not written that very thing on the page to contradict yourself. See below.
  4. ↑ Let R be the set of all sets that are not members of themselves. If R is itself not a member of itself, then it must contain itself. If it contains itself, then it cannot be a member of the set of all sets that are not members of themselves
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