josh blog

Ordinary language is all right.

One could divide humanity into two classes:
those who master a metaphor, and those who hold by a formula.
Those with a bent for both are too few, they do not comprise a class.

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6 Oct '15 07:25:06 AM

There are little comedies hiding in the Investigations:

Jemand fragt mich: »Kannst du dieses Gewicht heben?« Ich antworte »Ja«. Nun sagt er »Tu's!« – da kann ich es nicht.

1 Oct '15 09:25:24 PM

'whereas ways cannot go, nor proverbs speak'

29 Sep '15 02:39:29 AM

'… something about your condition, especially your outward condition or circumstances in this world, in this town, what it is, whether it is necessary that it be as bad as it is…'

27 Sep '15 11:43:22 PM

'There are motives, too, provided by his methods. No one expects to write, or be, like Plato. Aristotle, though, even when one has dimly recognised the extent of his genius, can seem to provide a comforting reassurance to philosophers about the possibility of their subject, in the form of an omnipresent judiciousness, which, in itself, is only too easy to imitate.'

24 Sep '15 04:43:33 PM

'I'm just trying to make radio music.'

22 Sep '15 06:30:13 PM

(Note for part II, p. 3: what is a philosophical conclusion? —Yet another element to be destabilized if philosophy's conventions are unsettled.)

15 Sep '15 06:24:29 PM

Smiling faces sometimes

12 Sep '15 04:42:38 PM

'If that's your job, you're very very nervous every day…'

12 Sep '15 07:26:36 AM

'Putting a book together is interesting and exhilarating. It is sufficiently difficult and complex that it engages all your intelligence. It is life at its most free. Your freedom as a writer is not freedom of expression in the sense of wild blurting: you may not let rip. It is life at its most free, if you are fortunate enough to be able to try it, because you select your materials, invent your task, and pace yourself. In the democracies, you may even write and publish anything you please about any governments or institutions, even if what you write is demonstrably false.

The obverse of this freedom, of course, is that you work is so meaningless, so fully for yourself alone, and so worthless to the world, that no one except you cares whether you do it well, or ever. You are free to make several thousand close judgment calls a day. Your freedom is a by-product of your days' triviality. A shoe salesman—who is doing others' tasks, who must answer to two or three bosses, who must do his job their way, and must put himself in their hands, at their place, during their hours—is nevertheless working usefully. Further, if the shoe salesman fails to appear one morning, someone will notice and miss him. Your manuscript, on which you lavish such care, has no needs or wishes; it knows you not. Nor does anyone need your manuscript; everyone needs shoes more. There are many manuscripts already—worthy ones, most edifying and moving ones, intelligent and powerful ones. If you believed Paradise Lost to be excellent, would you buy it? Why not shoot yourself, actually, rather than finish one more excellent manuscript on which to gag the world?'