I am skeptical of the human fondness for analysis and explanation. Given what I have seen during my 50-odd years on Earth, my skepticism grows by the day. For instance, each time some fresh horror (whether natural or man-made) occurs in the world, there is a rush to "analyze" and "explain" it. As if we could change things. As if there were something new under the sun.
There is a core of social engineering busybodyness to this enterprise that seems dismissive of both Nature and Human Nature. (This busybodyness is exacerbated by the media and promoted by our ever-compassionate governments, which, of course, are always extremely concerned about the well-being of our souls.) And here is the pay-off (or punch-line, as you wish): the underlying premise of the enterprise is the belief that, by "analyzing" and "explaining" things, we (humanity) will make "progress."
Because I see the world poisoned
by cant and brutal self-seeking,
must I be silent about
the useless waterlily, the dunnock's nest
in the hedgeback?
Because I am fifty-six years old
must I love, if I love at all,
only ideas -- not people, but only
the idea of people?
Because there is work to do, to steady
a world jarred off balance,
must a man meet only a fellow-worker
and never a man?
There are more meanings than those
in text books of economics
and a part of the worst slum
is the moon rising over it
and eyes weeping and
Norman MacCaig, in Ewen McCaig (editor), The Poems of Norman MacCaig (Polygon 2009). A note: a "dunnock" is also known as a hedge sparrow or a hedge warbler.