(no subject)
I spent all day with the celebrated Mr. Hobbes, a most perceptive fellow. As I supped stale rechauffé and from my windowed perch observed humanity, I dismissed their predictable movements, efforts, and appetites. I mistrusted the fellow who passed me the salt at lunch. By late afternoon I felt nothing but contempt. So I put him down and diverted to a game of catch in the middle of a highly-traveled walkway. How pleasing to see the nervous faces of every traveler who crossed our toss--and how gleeful! Everyone is always afraid, though our fear lurks in the mud. A pretty girl told me she was jealous to play, but her well-worn Bataille beckoned her back to the bowels bibliotheque. Many envied us, I think, that we could idle time in a loose game of catch. The academic artifice is seeming effortless. So the Englishman was right: all our pleasure comes from a high opinion of ourselves, we cannot resist boasting and contempt, by pretty smiles or snickering.