It’s often said that as you get older, time moves faster.
This is undoubtedly true, except for when it moves more slowly than it once did.
I’m reading a book by Richard Rorty,* who — unlike Plato/Kant/Schopenhauer/Freud/Jung — argues that there is no greater truth to be discovered, either inside of us or beyond us, i.e., there is no “will” or “unconscious.” Rorty is not exactly “tween-lit” — I will probs have to read it twice to really digest — and I’m only about halfway done, so I could be getting it entirely wrong!
There is only the changing/evolving language we use to describe our circumstances. As such, two observations — seemingly contradictory — could both be entirely valid.
In effect, there is only the arrangement of books and art — the exposure of the different threads that tie things together — which he calls literary criticizzzzzzzm.
What’s clear is that he’s not an artist, but a thinker.
There is a line in the photograph that clearly divides it; one half is bathed in brilliant sunlight and the other is frozen in the shadow.
Recently — in part because of reading Rorty — I have begun to have doubts about which side I would prefer to be found.
