Everthing in the world is fractional. Our understanding of everything is based on partial understanding. We can never fully grasp another persons point of view, nor can we ever fully appreciate another person's accomplishments.
Say you read a beautiful poem. You can never appreicate what it took to make that poem. For you never lived that poet's life. Or writing poetry. Since words have different meanings to everyone, it's impossible to have a poem mean what you want it to mean. But rahter, only a percentage of it comes accross and is understood.
The same is true in all facets of life. Work, athletics, nature, anywhere. Nothing is trully understood by the observer, and the work, the end product, only has special significance for the creator, and no one else.
This is not a bad thing. This is what makes us survive, this fractional existence. It's when we feel a higher percentage that we feel touched, moved or motivated by another's act. But never because we fully understand the other. No matter how much we'd like to think it, it just doesn't happen.

The Tables Turned (An evening scene on the same subject)

Up, up my friend and quit your books
Or surely you'll grow double
Up up my friend and clear your looks
Why all this toil and trouble

The sun above the mountain's head
A freshening luster mellow
Through all the long green fields hath spread
His first sweet evening yellow

Books, 'tis a dull and endless strife
Come, hear the woodland linnet
How sweet his music on my life
There's more of wisdom in it

And hark how blithe the throstle sings
He too is no mean preacher
Come forth into the light of things
Let nature be your teacher
She has a world of ready wealth
Our minds and hearts to bless
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health
Truth breathed by cheerfulness

One impulse from the vernal wood
May teach you more of man
Of moral evil and of good
Than all the sages can

Sweet is the lore which nature brings
Our meddling intellect
Mishapes the beautious form of things
We murder to dissect

Enough of science and of art
Close up those barren leaves
Come forth and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives

William Wordsworth

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