Gloucester, surrounded by caissons.
Out of what I believe to be a sense of devilment and the absurd, that rotter jarkman lent me Alain De Botton's 'The pleasures and sorrows of work.'
It's excellent and uncomfortable reading.
I'd sort of half-wondered for quite some time why yer man De Botton was in receipt of such regular shoeings from, well, the entirety of Trad Meejah and a good wedge of the broadsheet-bothering 'speak you're branes' that is the alleged 'blogosphere'.
It's because he asks apparently innocent questions that make you stop and confront the futility of your life. Obviously, the people with vested interests in selling you opinions clothed as fact (See also the Julian Assange interview in the Manchester Guardian. Unfortunately for the paper, they sent a journalist rather than someone who knew the score.) and/or selling you things to stop you thinking, which are more or less the same thing, are terrified of anyone who might cause an outbreak of Thought.
I quote (i): 'I left Symon's company newly aware of the unthinking cruelty discreetly coiled with in the magnanimous bourgeois assurance that everyone can discover happiness through work and love. It isn't that these two entities are invariably incapable of delivering fulfilment, only that they almost never do so. And when an exception is misrepresented as a rule, our individual misfortunes, instead of seeming to us quasi-inevitable aspects of life, will weigh down on us like particular curses.'
.. and (ii): ' ... presents the observer with a case-study of the discrete charms of offices, with their intriuguing blend of camaraderie, intelligence and futility.'
... and (iii): 'I told Renae that our robots and engines were delivering the lion's share of their benefits at the base of our pyramid of needs, that we were evident experts at swiftly assembling confectionery and yet we were still searching for reliable means of generating emotional stability or marital harmony. Renae had little to add to this analysis. A terrified expression spread across her features and she asked if I might excuse her.'
Which is the ideal sort of advert for the post of Jobbing Philosopher. (All concepts given due consideration while-u-wait. Ask about our loyalty programme.)
(Part of me hopes that Renae escaped the biscuit factory and is now doing something cheerfully strange.)
It's excellent and uncomfortable reading.
I'd sort of half-wondered for quite some time why yer man De Botton was in receipt of such regular shoeings from, well, the entirety of Trad Meejah and a good wedge of the broadsheet-bothering 'speak you're branes' that is the alleged 'blogosphere'.
It's because he asks apparently innocent questions that make you stop and confront the futility of your life. Obviously, the people with vested interests in selling you opinions clothed as fact (See also the Julian Assange interview in the Manchester Guardian. Unfortunately for the paper, they sent a journalist rather than someone who knew the score.) and/or selling you things to stop you thinking, which are more or less the same thing, are terrified of anyone who might cause an outbreak of Thought.
I quote (i): 'I left Symon's company newly aware of the unthinking cruelty discreetly coiled with in the magnanimous bourgeois assurance that everyone can discover happiness through work and love. It isn't that these two entities are invariably incapable of delivering fulfilment, only that they almost never do so. And when an exception is misrepresented as a rule, our individual misfortunes, instead of seeming to us quasi-inevitable aspects of life, will weigh down on us like particular curses.'
.. and (ii): ' ... presents the observer with a case-study of the discrete charms of offices, with their intriuguing blend of camaraderie, intelligence and futility.'
... and (iii): 'I told Renae that our robots and engines were delivering the lion's share of their benefits at the base of our pyramid of needs, that we were evident experts at swiftly assembling confectionery and yet we were still searching for reliable means of generating emotional stability or marital harmony. Renae had little to add to this analysis. A terrified expression spread across her features and she asked if I might excuse her.'
Which is the ideal sort of advert for the post of Jobbing Philosopher. (All concepts given due consideration while-u-wait. Ask about our loyalty programme.)
(Part of me hopes that Renae escaped the biscuit factory and is now doing something cheerfully strange.)