That philosophical question pulsed through Twitter this week. Was pro wrestling only ever a shallow, carny exercise in lifting money from "the marks", or was it a wonderful emulation of real sport worked to extract the maximum drama and guaranteed triumph of a feeling that otherwise is left to an often cruel chance - a glum feeling that, as any Newcastle United fan can tell you, sometimes lasts for a lifetime?
Do we protect the old secrets of an exposed industry to make it easier for one to bask once more in the illusion, or do we experiment beyond them to make something new of it? Or is wrestling now complementary to itself, much like cinema, in which the existence of a parody film in no way detracts from - and is incidental to - the mesmeric brilliance of a modern classic?
Or has pro wrestling now evolved into "art", something that famously is never critiqued? If we're meant to no-sell the power of pro wrestling, and simply shut up and enjoy or disregard it, how powerful can it truly be?
D. Everett once wrote "Large streams from little fountains flow; tall oaks from little acorns grow."
In pro wrestling, philosophical debates from worked tampons grow.