(no subject)
I've decided that I don't believe in a priori truth.
If knowledge is like literature, then the most important epistemological question is: what is implicitly known via intertextual inference.
If knowledge is like science, the the most important epistemological question is: what is science.
I agree with Arthur Fine. he's a lot smarter than I am.
If a woman who hangs around with gays is a fag hag, then what is a man who hangs around with lesbians? A dyke dork?
and now, a word from philip roth:
"The powder fell upon her hair and her face and the shoulders of her sweater; but for all that she was only fiften and with her upturned nose and her straight blond hair look to be no more than ten, she did not so much as flinch; she stood as she was, one loafer on the bottom step and one on the walk, and a finger in her schoolbook--all ready, it seemed to return to her studies which she had interrupted only to dial the station house."
I wrote a poem once about a girl I used to know. I lost the book that the poem was written in, but I remember one of the lines had something to do with the way the bones in her fingers were so thin, the way her slender fingers in her wool gloves felt strong and brittle laced between mine. but that can't be right, becuase i remember them now not as gloves, but as mittens. and we weren't holding hands, but walking arm in arm. and now my memory is wrapped in a glove and feels strong and brittle all at once.
I have rum at home. I should leave this place.
thank god I have tomorrow off.
If knowledge is like literature, then the most important epistemological question is: what is implicitly known via intertextual inference.
If knowledge is like science, the the most important epistemological question is: what is science.
I agree with Arthur Fine. he's a lot smarter than I am.
If a woman who hangs around with gays is a fag hag, then what is a man who hangs around with lesbians? A dyke dork?
and now, a word from philip roth:
"The powder fell upon her hair and her face and the shoulders of her sweater; but for all that she was only fiften and with her upturned nose and her straight blond hair look to be no more than ten, she did not so much as flinch; she stood as she was, one loafer on the bottom step and one on the walk, and a finger in her schoolbook--all ready, it seemed to return to her studies which she had interrupted only to dial the station house."
I wrote a poem once about a girl I used to know. I lost the book that the poem was written in, but I remember one of the lines had something to do with the way the bones in her fingers were so thin, the way her slender fingers in her wool gloves felt strong and brittle laced between mine. but that can't be right, becuase i remember them now not as gloves, but as mittens. and we weren't holding hands, but walking arm in arm. and now my memory is wrapped in a glove and feels strong and brittle all at once.
I have rum at home. I should leave this place.
thank god I have tomorrow off.