There is a rock along a mountain path, sitting upon which you can learn everything there is to know about Other People. This rock (and I sit upon it often) grants one a fine and admirable view of the path, both one way and the other. It lets you see the long road up which the pilgrims walk, and around the corner, it lets you see the bear that eats them. I’m not a cruel man very often, and when I see the pilgrims approach my rock at the corner I’m given to warning them, in the spirit of goodwill: “I wouldn’t go that way if I were you… there is a bear just around that corner, and darn it if he doesn’t have the taste for pilgrims!”
And of course, as pilgrims are wont to do, they shout back in reply “How dare you tell us how and where to go, you think you know better than us? Are there not many rocks with many views? Who are you to sit up there and pass judgement down upon us?”
“Who am I? But a man who sees a bear of course” but the pilgrims they will have none of this.
“Such pretension, such arrogance,” they mutter as they walk around the corner into the hungry embrace of the bear.
Soon the survivors will return, running back around and let me tell you a thing; they do not admit fault, or thank me for my attempted warnings, quite the opposite. In fact, they make a virtue of their ignorance, and blame me still further:
“Who are you to judge us?” They say, “You have never even been attacked by a bear! It’s easy to philosophise up there on your ivory rock, but try walking our path.” And so they amble away, grumbling about the men on rocks deceiving the noble-but-simple salt of the earth pilgrims.
But this is not the worst thing, not at all. After the pilgrims leave, a young boy on the rock above will always say “I told you not to sit there!”

Can you imagine? The arrogant little pup.