[b]Tom Stoppard
There is nothing more to be said about sexual congress.
Is it the same as love?
Oh no, it is much nicer than that. [/b]
Indeed, even in solitary confinement.
We shed as we pick up, like travelers who must carry everything in their arms, and what we let fall will be picked up by those left behind. The procession is very long and life is very short. We die on the march. But there is nothing outside the march so nothing can be lost to it.
True, so where do we fit into it?
Imagination without skill gives us contemporary art.
Ouch?
No one gets up after death–there is no applause–there is only silence and some second-hand clothes, and that’s death.
Right, like he can actually know this.
The world outside of me has no meaning independent of my thinking it. (pauses to look) I look out of the window. A garden. Trees. Grass. A young woman in a chair reading a book. I think: chair. So she is sitting. I think: book. So she is reading. Now the young woman touches her hair where it’s come undone. But how can we be sure there is a world of phenomena, a woman reading in a garden? Perhaps the only thing that’s real is my sensory experience, which has the form of a woman reading-- in a universe which is in fact empty! But Immanuel Kant says no! Because what I perceive as reality includes concepts which I cannot experience through the senses. Time and space. Cause and effect. Relations between things. Without me there is something wrong with this picture. The trees, the grass, the woman are merely…oh, she’s coming! she’s coming in here! I say, don’t leave! where are you going?!
To make a long story short, they fuck But it doesn’t work out.
If they are all so obsessed with change they should begin by changing for dinner.
Just clever enough not to be inane.