“Humans have always turned to opposites to make sense of their world. From the earliest myths to modern thought, we have relied on contrasts: good and bad, yes and no, light and dark, life and death,” writes Whimsy columnist CLIVE WILLIAMS.

Sometimes I lie awake at night, and I ask: “Where have I gone wrong?” Then a voice says to me: “This is going to take more than one night.” –Charlie Brown

They say that opposites attract, but I’ve found in the human world it’s seldom so.

Cognitive dissonance theory suggests that people are actually more attracted to others who think and look like them. (That often seems to extend to their choice of dog as well.) 

It also means that when you go for a job interview, you’re more likely to get the job if you dress like the members of the interview panel – and echo their personal likes and dislikes.

I also learned that you never apply for a job via phone interview when other applicants are appearing in person as you can’t easily build rapport over the phone.

Be that as it may, humans have always turned to opposites to make sense of their world. From the earliest myths to modern thought, we have relied on contrasts: good and bad, yes and no, light and dark, life and death. These opposites form the structure of language and morality. Opposites may provide parameters, but they rarely tell the whole story.

To say something is “good” implies that “bad” exists; to say “yes” presupposes the possibility of “no.” This dual structure gives us orientation.

We understand joy because we know sorrow; we recognise courage in contrast to fear. Without such contrasts, many experiences would lose their meaning. Imagine a world without death: life would be endless, but would we value it as much? 

Philosophers in the West have long wrestled with this paradox. Heraclitus famously said that “strife is justice”, suggesting that conflict between opposites is what holds the cosmos together. Centuries later, Hegel claimed that history advances through the clash of opposites –  thesis and antithesis leading to synthesis. In this view, the tension between contrary forces is not destructive, but creative.

By contrast, Eastern traditions highlight the complementarity of opposites. Taoism speaks of yin and yang: dark and light, passive and active, feminine and masculine. These are not in conflict; rather, they are interdependent states.

This perspective softens the harshness of duality. Instead of needing us to choose between extremes, it invites us to recognise the relationship between them. Where the West tends to frame opposites as a struggle, the East tends to see them as a balance.

This also affects our view of international affairs. Contrast, for example, the West’s adversarial view of the world with China’s go-with-the-flow and let-time-be-the-decider outlook.

The reality, of course, is that life cannot always be captured in binary terms. Between yes and no lies hesitation, ambiguity and conditional agreement. Between black and white are countless shades of grey. Good and bad are rarely absolute, but often situational, cultural and relative. What is considered virtuous in one context may be unacceptable in another.

Still, opposites are indispensable to human growth. We know strength because we’ve faced weakness. By moving between extremes, we discover balance – just as a tightrope walker must sway left and right to remain upright, so too must human beings navigate between the poles of their life experience.

On a lighter note: A vicar dies and is waiting in line at the Pearly Gates. Ahead of him is a man wearing sunglasses, a loud shirt, a leather jacket, and jeans. 

St Peter addresses him thus: “Who are you, that I may know whether or not to admit you to the Kingdom of Heaven?” 

The man replies: “I’m Joe Cohen, taxi driver, of Noo Yawk City.” 

St Peter consults his list, smiles and says to the taxi driver: “Take this silken robe and golden staff and enter the Kingdom of Heaven.” 

The taxi driver goes into Heaven with his robe and staff, and it’s the vicar’s turn.

He stands erect and booms out: “I am Joseph Snow, vicar of Calvary for the last 43 years.” 

St Peter consults his list. He says to the vicar: “Take this cotton robe and wooden staff and enter the Kingdom of Heaven.” 

“Just a cotton-picking minute,” says the vicar. “That man was a taxi driver, and he gets a silken robe and golden staff, and all I get is a cotton robe and wooden staff. How can this be?!” 

“Up here, we pay by results.” says St Peter. “While you preached, people slept; while he drove, people prayed.”

Clive Williams is a Canberra columnist.