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The other day I was informed by a writer that I couldn't write for toffee. What he actually said was that although amusing, my scribblings were completely pointless. Whether he himself was in touch with the essence of human existence? Absolutely, but then he had already admitted to my scribblings being amusing, and although I could be aiming for more than one goal at a time, if the memory of me sparked a smile this would enable me posthumously to discover a useful aspect to life. I have to admit though that I made a capital mistake in not asking him about the point of his own life: when I cite the soothing appreciation of not knowing as one of the achievements of today's intellectual, in my view it is implicit that no matter how silly an alternative view, you realise on the one hand that regardless of whom it concerns the process of gaining an insight is arduous and protracted, and frequently unproductive as well, while on the other it is an achievement that harbours the expectation of gratitude that gives people the sense of justice they experience whenever they think they know best. The writer also informed me that sentences should preferably never contain more than eight words each - could that be because that's about as many as the average headstone will accommodate? |