a thread for mundane ironists

[b]Existential Comics

Trying to understand our lives through physics is like trying to understand a Tolstoy novel by performing experiments on the ink.[/b]

I know: Maybe.

Yes, God is perfect; that’s why he doesn’t exist.

True, but it will take some getting used to.

I’ll be honest, it’s kind of impressive how rich people convinced poor people that their greatest enemies are even poorer immigrants.

Just another rendition of this: youtu.be/bXWM84rUV-Q

What do you do?
Well if I’m defined by my job then I’m a software engineer, but what I do is post communist propaganda on the internet.

So, what do you suppose that I do?

I’ll believe that computers are conscious when they start coming up with elaborate thought experiments in order to prove that we aren’t.

Come on, how hard could that be?

Yes, I mean, ideally I’d find fulfillment, happiness, and self actualization in life. But I guess I’ll settle for being popular on Twitter.

You know, the way I’m popular here. :wink:

[b]Leo Tolstoy

Life did not stop, and one had to live.[/b]

Fortunately, that’s just one way to look at it.

Kings are the slaves of history.

What then does that make the actual slaves?

Here I am alive, and it’s not my fault, so I have to try and get by as best I can without hurting anybody until death takes over.

You can’t get more philosophical about it than that, right?

A Frenchman’s self-assurance stems from his belief that he is mentally and physically irresistibly fascinating to both men and women. An Englishman’s self-assurance is founded on his being a citizen of the best organized state in the world and on the fact that, as an Englishman, he always knows what to do, and that whatever he does as an Englishman is unquestionably correct. An Italian is self-assured because he is excitable and easily forgets. A Russian is self-assured simply because he knows nothing and does not want to know anything, since he does not believe in the possibility of knowing anything fully.

Dare we then to pin down the self-assured American?

Pure and complete sorrow is as impossible as pure and complete joy.

Hmm. No shit?

There is something in the human spirit that will survive and prevail, there is a tiny and brilliant light burning in the heart of man that will not go out no matter how dark the world becomes.

Who actually believes such things?!!

[b]Sigmund Freud

When a man has once brought himself to accept uncritically all the absurdities that religious doctrines put before him and even to overlook the contradictions between them, we need not be greatly surprised at the weakness of his intellect.[/b]

But not you, right?

Neurosis is no excuse for bad manners.

Unless perhaps it’s the only one you’ve got.

This is one race of people for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever.

The Irish he means. So, what’s the story here?

If we are to take it as a truth that knows no exception that everything dies for internal reasons – becomes inorganic once again – then we shall be compelled to say that ‘the aim of all life is death’ and, looking backwards, that ‘inanimate things existed before living ones’.

Okay, true. But then what?

Observe the difference between your attitude to illusions and mine. You have to defend the religious illusion with all your might. If it becomes discredited - and indeed the threat to it is great enough - then your world collapses. There is nothing left for you but to despair of everything, of civilization and the future of mankind. From that bondage I am, we are, free. Since we are prepared to renounce a good part of our infantile wishes, we can bear it if a few of our expectations turn out to be illusions.

In other words, you’re dead and that’s it. If only for all of eternity.

No one who, like me, conjures up the most evil of those half-tamed demons that inhabit the human breast, and seeks to wrestle with them, can expect to come through the struggle unscathed.

That’s what the cocaine was for.

[b]Ian McEwan

I said I didn’t like tricks, I liked life as I knew it recreated on the page. He said it wasn’t possible to recreate life on the page without tricks.[/b]

One possible solution: Let them be tricks but call them something else.

Who could ever reckon up the damage done to love and friendship and all hopes of happiness by a surfeit or depletion of this or that neurotransmitter? And who will ever find a morality, an ethics down among the enzymes and amino acids when the general taste is for looking in the other direction?

One possible solution: Let this be the case but call it something else.

Henry liked to put to himself when he was a schoolboy: what are the chances of this particular fish, from that shoal, off that continental shelf ending up in the pages of this copy of the Daily Mirror? Something just short of infinity to one. Similarly, the grains of sand on a beach, arranged just so. The random ordering of the world, the unimaginable odds against any particular condition, still please him. Even as a child, and especially after Aberfan, he never believed in fate or providence, or the future being made by someone in the sky. Instead, at every instant, a trillion trillion possible futures; the pickiness of pure chance and physical laws seemed like freedom from the scheming of a gloomy god.

I know: a trillion trillion renditions of it.

How did they meet, and why were these lovers in a modern age so timid and innocent? They regarded themselves as too sophisticated to believe in destiny, but still, it remained a paradoxto them that so momentous a meeting should have been accidental, so dependent on a hundred minor events and choices. What a terrifying possibility, that it might never have happened at all.

Trust me: It serves you well not to dwell too long on such things.

Everyone knew as much as they needed to know to be happy.

Also, a hell of a lot more than they needed to know to be unhappy.

It’s the essence of a degenerating mind periodically, to lose all sense of continuous self, and therefore any regard for what others think of your lack of continuity.

Periodically. Yes, that’s a good place to start.

[b]Michio Kaku

Although consciousness is a patchwork of competing and often contradictory tendencies, the left brain ignores inconsistencies and papers over obvious gaps in order to give us a smooth sense of a single “I.” In other words, the left brain is constantly making excuses, some of them harebrained and preposterous, to make sense of the world. It is constantly asking “Why?” and dreaming up excuses even if the question has no answer.[/b]

Almost as though it has a dasein all its own. Whatever that means.

Sometimes the public says, ‘What’s in it for Numero Uno? Am I going to get better television reception? Am I going to get better Internet reception?’ Well, in some sense, yeah. … All the wonders of quantum physics were learned basically from looking at atom-smasher technology. … But let me let you in on a secret: We physicists are not driven to do this because of better color television. … That’s a spin-off. We do this because we want to understand our role and our place in the universe.

Selfish bastards!

Physicists often quote from T. H. White’s epic novel The Once and Future King, where a society of ants declares, ‘Everything not forbidden is compulsory.’ In other words, if there isn’t a basic principle of physics forbidding time travel, then time travel is necessarily a physical possibility.

On the other hand, this isn’t necessarily true.

In 1967, the second resolution to the cat problem was formulated by Nobel laureate Eugene Wigner, whose work was pivotal in laying the foundation of quantum mechanics and also building the atomic bomb. He said that only a conscious person can make an observation that collapses the wave function. But who is to say that this person exists? You cannot separate the observer from the observed, so maybe this person is also dead and alive. In other words, there has to be a new wave function that includes both the cat and the observer. To make sure that the observer is alive, you need a second observer to watch the first observer. This second observer is called “Wigner’s friend,” and is necessary to watch the first observer so that all waves collapse. But how do we know that the second observer is alive? The second observer has to be included in a still-larger wave function to make sure he is alive, but this can be continued indefinitely. Since you need an infinite number of “friends” to collapse the previous wave function to make sure they are alive, you need some form of “cosmic consciousness,” or God. Wigner concluded: “It was not possible to formulate the laws (of quantum theory) in a fully consistent way without reference to consciousness.” Toward the end of his life, he even became interested in the Vedanta philosophy of Hinduism. In this approach, God or some eternal consciousness watches over all of us, collapsing our wave functions so that we can say we are alive. This interpretation yields the same physical results as the Copenhagen interpretation, so this theory cannot be disproven. But the implication is that consciousness is the fundamental entity in the universe, more fundamental than atoms. The material world may come and go, but consciousness remains as the defining element, which means that consciousness, in some sense, creates reality. The very existence of the atoms we see around us is based on our ability to see and touch them.

In other words, 1 may or may not = 0.999. :-k

However, animals apparently dream differently than we do. In the dolphin, for example, only one hemisphere at a time sleeps in order to prevent drowning, because they are air-breathing mammals, not fish. So if they dream, it is probably in only one hemisphere at a time.

I know: How the hell does that work?!

It is remarkable that a gigantic, city-size computer is required to simulate a piece of human tissue that weighs three pounds, fits inside your skull, raises your body temperature by only a few degrees, uses twenty watts of power, and needs only a few hamburgers to keep it going.

No doubt about it: God was a genius.
Right?

[b]Hilary Mantel

The weight of the old world is stifling, and trying to shovel its weight off your life is tiring just to think about. The constant shuttling of opinions is tiring, and the shuffling of papers across desks, the chopping of logic and the trimming of attitudes. There must, somewhere, be a simpler, more violent world.[/b]

Not too violent of course. Just enough to make it simple.

I think now that this is the great division between people. There are people who find life hard and those who find it easy. There are those who have a natural, in-built, expectation of happiness, and there are those who feel that happiness is not to be expected: that it is not, in fact, one of the rights of man. Nor, God knows, one of the rights of women.

No doubt about my own inclination here, is there?

For one never thinks of you alone, Cremuel, but in company, studying the faces of other people, as if you yourself mean to paint them. You make other men think, not “what does he look like?” but “what do I look like?”

You know, when a mirror just isn’t enough.

Men say, Liz reaches for her scissors, ‘I can’t endure it when women cry’–just as people say, ‘I can’t endure this wet weather.’ As if it were nothing to do with the men at all, the crying. Just one of those things that happen.

All men but me in other words.

You mustn’t stand about. Come home with me to dinner.
No. More shakes his head. I would rather be blown around on the river and go home hungry. If I could trust you only to put food in my mouth – but you will put words into it.

Or, some, God.

But my sins are my strength, he thinks; the sins I have done, that others have not even found the opportunity of committing. I hug them close; they’re mine.

Same here. But I call them something else.

[b]Ursula K. Le Guin

They were without shame and without desire, like the angels. But it is not human to be without shame and without desire.[/b]

In fact, it’s not even close.

George, it’s impossible to correct a defective reality-orientation overnight.

In fact, you might even say that here we are living proof of it, George.

On the planet O there has not been a war for five thousand years, she read, and on Gethen there has never been a war." She stopped reading, to rest her eyes and because she was trying to train herself to read slowly. “There has never been a war.” In her mind the words stood clear and bright, surrounded by and sinking into an infinite, dark, soft incredulity. What would that world be, a world without war? It would be the real world. Peace was the true life, the life of working and learning and bringing up children to work and learn. War, which devoured work, learning, and children, was the denial of reality. But my people, she thought, know only how to deny. Born in the dark shadow of power misused, we set peace outside our world, a guiding and unattainable light. All we know to do is fight. Any peace one of us can make in our life is only a denial that the war is going on, a shadow of the shadow, a doubled unbelief.

On the other hand, there has never been a war on the Moon. Not to my knowledge.

… there are things that outweigh comfort, unless one is an old woman or a cat.

Or [by far] an old cat.

She said it seemed like the only choices offered were to want to be what other people were, or to be what other people wanted you to be.

Or, here in America, the choice between Clinton or Trump.

When in the Land of Property think like a propertarian. Dress like one, eat like one, act like one, be one.

Unless of course property is theft.

[b]Sarah Silverman

That still feels like the most accurate description—I felt homesick, but I was home.[/b]

Nope, can’t even imagine it.

Summer camp: the second worst camp for Jews.

Of course not everyone will find this funny.

I was going to get an abortion the other day.
I totally wanted an abortion.
And it turns out I was just thirsty.

Of course not everyone will find this funny.

Your inability to see yourself clearly is what’s keeping you alive.

And that is just around the corner from ignorance is bliss.

People who call themselves divas…you are not a diva. I’m pretty sure you’re a cunt.

On the other hand, everyone is a cunt to someone.

Nothing seems crazy when you’re used to it.

And there is always the possibility that it really isn’t crazy at all.

[b]Tony Kushner

I’m not religious, but I like God and he likes me.[/b]

Pascal’s other wager.

Purple? Boy, what kind of a homosexual are you, anyway? That’s not purple, Mary, that color up there is mauve.

Live and learn, eh?

Real love isn’t ambivalent. I’d swear that’s a line from my favorite best-selling paperback novel, “In Love with the Night Mysterious”, except I don’t think you’ve ever read it. Well, you ought to, instead of spending the rest of your life, trying to get through “Democracy in America.” It’s about this white woman whose daddy owns a plantation in the Deep South, in the years before the Civil War. And her name is Margaret, and she’s in love with her daddy’s number-one slave, and his name is Thaddeus. And she’s married, but her white slave-owner husband has AIDS: Antebellum Insufficiently-Developed Sex-organs. And so, there’s a lot of hot stuff going down, when Margaret and Thaddeus can catch a spare torrid ten under the cotton-picking moon. And then of course the Yankees come, and they set the slaves free. And the slaves string up old daddy and so on, historical fiction. Somewhere in there I recall, Margaret and Thaddeus find the time to discuss the nature of love. Her face is reflecting the flames of the burning plantation, you know the way white people do, and his black face is dark in the night and she says to him, "Thaddeus, real love isn’t ever ambivalent.”

I suspect that’s all just made up. But maybe not.

If He ever did come back, if He ever dared to show His face, or his Glyph, or whatever in the Garden again— if after all this destruction, if after all the terrible days of this terrible century, He returned to see how much suffering His abandonment had created, if all He has to offer is death, you should sue the bastard. That’s my only contribution to all this theology: sue the bastard for walking out. How dare He.

Right, like God could possibly lose.

One has to have a complicated kind of optimism. You can’t refuse to look at how horrible things are.

Yeah, that’s complicated alright.

It’s no fun picking on you Louis; you’re so guilty, it’s like throwing darts at a glob of jello, there’s no satisfying hits, just quivering, the darts just blop in and vanish.

You know, like tangling with the objectivists here. :-"

[b]Elena Epaneshnik

No offense, but it’s not you.[/b]

No offense, but it is.

Soon we’ll be able to write DMs to ourselves. And reply to them.

And not just in the nut house.

If you feel like an idiot that may mean that you’ve outsmarted yourself.

She means you, Turd. Well, among others. :wink:

Since Hell is such a popular destination, going there should be taxed, progressively.

Liberally in other words.

‘Us’ is the most confusing personal pronoun.

It’s “I” + “I”, so that’s only natural. And, with each new “I”, all the more confusing.

We are only afraid of hell because we’re already there.

Let’s file this one under, “Now that you think about it…”

[b]Walker Percy

At that time the only treatment of angelism, that is, excessive abstraction of the self from itself, was recovery of the self through ordeal.[/b]

I know: define ordeal.

…the self in the twentieth century is a voracious nought which expands like the feeding vacuole of an amoeba seeking to nourish and inform its own nothingness by ingesting new objects in the world but, like a vacuole, only succeeds in emptying them out.

Fortunately, in today’s world, you can always buy more. All you need is being able to afford to.

The Self since the time of Descartes has been stranded, split off from everything else in the Cosmos, a mind which professes to understand bodies and galaxies but is by the very act of understanding marooned in the Cosmos, with which is has no connection. It therefore needs to exercise every option in order to reassure itself that it is not a ghost but is rather a self among other selves. One such option is a sexual encounter. Another is war. The pleasure of a sexual encounter derives not only from physical gratification but also from the demonstration to oneself that, despite one’s own ghostliness, one is, for the moment at least, a sexual being. Amazing! Indeed, the most amazing of all the creatures in the Cosmos: a ghost with an erection! Yet not really amazing, for only if the abstracted ghost has an erection can it, like Jove spying Europa on the beach, enter the human condition.

Really, if you look hard enough, you’ll find “I” in there somewhere.

School is disappointing. If science is exciting and art is exhilarating, the schools and universities have achieved the not inconsiderable feat of rendering both dull. As every scientist and poet knows, one discovers both vocations in spite of, not because of school. It takes years to recover from the stupor of being taught Shakespeare in English Lit and Wheatstone’s bridge in Physics.

Indeed, that’s what the rich invented private schools for. If only for their kids.

Have you noticed that the narrower the view the more you can see? For the first time I understand how old ladies can sit on their porches for years.

Go figure, right?

Yes, interest! The worm of interest. Are you surprised? No? Yes? One conclusion I have reached here after a year in my cell is that the only emotion people feel nowadays is interest or the lack of it. Curiosity and interest and boredom have replaced the so-called emotions we used to read about in novels or see registered on actors’ faces. Even the horrors of the age translate into interest. Did you ever watch anybody pick up a newspaper and read the headline PLANE CRASH KILLS THREE HUNDRED? How horrible! says the reader. But look at him when he hands you the paper. Is he horrified? No, he is interested. When is the last time you saw anybody horrified?

Interest, sure. That and how to make a buck on it.

[b]Herbert Marcuse

Obscenity is a moral concept in the verbal arsenal of the establishment, which abuses the term by applying it, not to expressions of its own morality but to those of another.[/b]

Which of course is either more or less obscene.

One-dimensional thought is systematically promoted by the makers of politics and their purveyors of mass information. Their universe of discourse is populated by self-validating hypotheses which, incessantly and monopolistically repeated, become hyponotic definitions of dictations.

More like 0.999 dimensional thought to some. But point taken.

The strains and stresses suffered by the individual in society are grounded in the normal functioning of that society (and of the individual!) rather than in its disturbances and diseases.

By the way, that’s not widely known.

The intellectual is called on the carpet… Don’t you conceal something? You talk a language which is suspect. You don’t talk like the rest of us, like the man in the street, but rather like a foreigner who does not belong here. We have to cut you down to size, expose your tricks, purge you.

And to think I once used to complain about that!

As Hegel defines it: “Thinking is, indeed, essentially the negation of that which is before us.” … Reason is the negation of the negative. … Reason, and Reason alone, contains its own corrective.

In other words, intellectuals eat their own. Or something like that.

Those who devote their lives to earning a living are incapable of living a human existence.

Aside from not making any sense at all, why else is this true?

[b]Haruki Murakami

It’s like Tolstoy said. Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness a story.[/b]

And not a short story either.

But I didn’t understand then. That I could hurt somebody so badly she would never recover. That a person can, just by living, damage another human being beyond repair.

Of course some of us did understand then. In fact that was the whole point of it.

I was always hungry for love. Just once, I wanted to know what it was like to get my fill of it – to be fed so much love I couldn’t take any more. Just once.

That’s what pets are for. Well, for some of us.

Listen up - there’s no war that will end all wars.

Cue the military industrial complex.
Come on, just once?

I have this strange feeling that I’m not myself anymore. It’s hard to put into words, but I guess it’s like I was fast asleep, and someone came, disassembled me, and hurriedly put me back together again. That sort of feeling.

Don’t look at me. I’m talking about something altogether different.

She waited for the train to pass. Then she said, I sometimes think that people’s hearts are like deep wells. Nobody knows what’s at the bottom. All you can do is imagine by what comes floating to the surface every once in a while.

And even then [no doubt] it’s not what you think it is.

[b]William Gaddis

Originality is a device that untalented people use to impress other untalented people to protect themselves from talented people…[/b]

He’s paraphrasing Nietzsche of course.

Stupidity’s the deliberate cultivation of ignorance.

He means you, Mr. Objectivist.

Free trade and Christianity, it’s the German East Africa Company, it’s French Equatorial Africa, it’s the Belgians cutting down the Congo population from twenty million to ten in barely twenty years, by nineteen fourteen there’s nothing left to plunder in Africa so they go to war with each other in Europe instead that’s what the whole damned first world war was all about.

In other words, all in preparation for the second world war.

I recall a most ingenious piece in a Wisconsin quarterly some years ago in which ‘The Recognitions’ ’ debt to ‘Ulysses’ was established in such minute detail I was doubtful of my own firm recollection of never having read ‘Ulysses’.

One thing for sure: I never read it. Not that anyone would actually care about that.

The most difficult challenge to the ideal is its transformation into reality, and few ideals survive.

Few meaning none I suspect.

They write for people who read with the surface of their minds, people with reading habits that make the smallest demands on them, people brought up reading for facts, who know what’s going to come next and want to know what’s coming next, and get angry at surprises.

Here for example: nytimes.com/books/best-selle … tion/?_r=0

[b]Chuck Palahniuk

This isn’t about love and hate, Helen says. It’s about control. People don’t sit down and read a poem to kill their child. They just want the child to sleep. They just want to dominate. No matter how much you love someone, you still want to have your own way. The masochist bullies the sadist into action. The most passive person is actually an aggressor.[/b]

I know: What if this is true?

We’re all trapped. It’s always 1734. All of us, we’re stuck in the same time capsule, the same as those television shows where the same people are marooned on the same desert island for thirty seasons and never age or escape. They just wear more makeup. In a creepy way, those shows are maybe too authentic.

Let’s try to pin down just how exagerated this is.

Almost all the time, you tell yourself you’re loving somebody when you’re just using them.

Let’s try to pin down just how exagerated this is.

Tyler and me at the edge of the roof, the gun in my mouth, I’m wondering how clean this gun is.

Only to learn later this may be the least of his worries.

This is the greatest momemt of your life and you’re out missing it.

Intentionally more likely than not.

When you die, trust me, the most difficult person to leave behind is yourself.

Unless you’re the least difficult person to leave behind. And we know what that means.

[b]Robert A. Heinlein

Children seldom are able to realize that death will come to them personally. One might define adulthood as the age at which a person learns that he must die … and accepts his sentence undismayed.[/b]

Me? I’m still dismayed. Though not as much as I used to be.

Nothing gives life more zest that running for your life.

Once you get past being terrified.

Abstract design is all right—for wallpaper or linoleum. But art is the process of evoking pity or terror, which is not abstract at all but very human.

The part that Mark Rothko never figured out.

I was there to see beautiful naked women. So was everybody else. It’s a common failing.

If, for example, you’re a man.

…doing something constructive at once is better than figuring out the best thing to do hours later.

Not counting the exceptions.

“Sovereign,” like “love,” means anything you want it to mean; it’s a word in dictionary between “sober” and "sozzled.”

Still, a lot closer to sozzled, right?

[b]Ethicist For Hire

Humanity is defined by its quest for…
Ancient: The Divine
Modern: The Truth
Today: The Viral[/b]

Or, sure, something altogether different.

What’s the ethics of greeting people?
Ethics isn’t really about socializing.
Isn’t that all ethics is about?
Not the way we do it…

And we all know who they are.

That moment when you suddenly get Derrida…

From the grave maybe.

Why do people?
Why do people what?
No, that’s it, that’s my question…

Anyway, the answer is this: Because.

Am I a Nihilist if I don’t care about anything.
Since you cared enough to ask, no…

A nihilist just can’t win!

Humanity: Why do you do nothing to stop all these terror attacks?
God: Hey, I gave you Grand Theft Auto, Call of Duty, and Pokemon Go.

Must be one of the other Gods, right?

[b]Richard Yates

You’re painfully alive in a drugged and dying culture.[/b]

That can’t be good.

The hopeless emptiness. Hell, plenty of people are on to the emptiness part; out where I used to work, on the Coast, that’s all we ever talked about. We’d sit around talking about emptiness all night. Nobody ever said ‘hopeless,’ though; that’s where we’d chicken out. Because maybe it does take a certain amount of guts to see the emptiness, but it takes a whole hell of a lot more to see the hopelessness. And I guess when you do see the hopelessness, that’s when there’s nothing to do but take off. If you can.

No, as a matter of fact, I can’t. Or not anymore.

You want to play house, you got to have a job. You want to play very nice house, very sweet house, then you got to have a job you don’t like. Great. This is the way ninety-eight-point-nine percent of the people work things out, so believe me, buddy, you’ve got nothing to apologize for.

And sure as shit nothing to boast of.

The hell with “love” anyway, and with every other phony, time-wasting, half-assed emotion in the world.

All of them in other words.

And do you know a funny thing? I’m almost fifty years old and I’ve never understood anything in my whole life.

Who thinks shit like that? Or, sure, who doesn’t?

This country’s probably the psychiatric, psychoanalytical capital of the world. Old Freud himself could never’ve dreamed up a more devoted bunch of disciples than the population of the United States - isn’t that right? Our whole damn culture is geared to it; it’s the new religion; it’s everybody’s intellectual and spiritual sugar-tit. And for all that, look what happens when a man really does blow his top. Call the Troopers, get him out of sight quick, hustle him off and lock him up before he wakes the neighbors. Christ’s sake, when it comes to any kind of showdown we’re still in the Middle Ages. It’s as if everybody’d made this tacit agreement to live in a state of total self-deception. The hell with reality! Let’s have a whole bunch of cute little winding roads and cute little houses painted white and pink and baby blue; let’s all be good consumers and have a lot of Togetherness and bring our children up in a bath of sentimentality – and if old reality ever does pop out and say Boo we’ll all get busy and pretend it never happened.

So, don’t forget to vote!

[b]Leo Tolstoy

As long as there are slaughter houses there will always be battlefields.[/b]

Not hard to connect those dots, is it?

Ivan Ilych’s life had been most simple and most ordinary and therefore most terrible.

Not hard to connect those dots, is it?

To educate the peasantry, three things are needed: schools, schools and schools.

The idea being to turn them all into…good citizens.

One must be cunning and wicked in this world.

In other words, more than the next guy.

You say: I am not free. But I have raised and lowered my arm. Everyone understands that this illogical answer is an irrefutable proof of freedom.

Yep: That again.

The most difficult subjects can be explained to the most slow-witted man if he has not formed any idea of them already; but the simplest thing cannot be made clear to the most intelligent man if he is firmly persuaded that he knows already, without a shadow of doubt, what is laid before him.

He means you, Mr. Objectivist.

[b]Nein

Monday. The longest day of the year.[/b]

And not just in the Summer.

Yes, sadly, sometimes even the best writing has a typo. Then it must be deleted. No acceptions.

Your correct of course. Write, Turd? :sunglasses:

If you need me, I’ll be playing Pokémon Godot.

Let’s start a tournament!

Remember, friends: it’s not the poverty of your imagination. It’s the profundity of your indifference.

Or [more often than not] both.

Putsch. A German word. Meaning coup. Which is a French word. Meaning one thing if you win. And another entirely if you lose.

And not just in Turkey. Though especially there now.

Philadelphia. It’s where I go to feel better. When I start feeling bad. For not feeling worse. About leaving New York.

To the best of my knowledge, no one has ever said that about Baltimore.