Sontag isn't simply saying we all mess up—she's suggesting that stupidity isn't a bug in the human system but a feature, as baked into existence as breathing or aging. The permission slip she offers is subtler than mere self-forgiveness; it's an acknowledgment that consciousness itself carries no guarantee of wisdom, that our capacity for reflection doesn't prevent us from doing foolish things anyway. Consider the person who knows exactly why they shouldn't call an ex at midnight, understands the consequences perfectly, and does it anyway—that paradox of knowledge divorced from action is what Sontag captures, and it's far more honest than pretending we fail because we simply didn't think hard enough.