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.
Annual visitors on a ladder outside my window: the cable guy unstealing cable, and the neighbor a few days later who steals it back again.
'The underground man writes as if he were thinking, but he thinks as if he were addressing others.'
'To say, when they are at work, "Let’s have done with it now," is a physical need for human beings; it is the constant necessity when you are philosophising to go on thinking in face of this need that makes this such strenuous work.'
'What are the sources of this life, the origins of such a business? This book began as both a cultural-historical and an autotherapeutic answer to this question. Its working claim is that the origins of error—as an ideology, a practice, a defining mode of scholarly identity—lie in the nexus of the editorial, the academic, and the political that has shaped textual adventures from the Renaissance to the present. My argument is that the professionalization of literary study took shape through such encounters with the erroneous: more specifically, through detailed engagements with the classical inheritance of rhetoric and philology. But my conception of error embraces both the erring and the errant (the Latin word “errare” means, of course, “to wander”). Being wrong is also about being displaced, about wandering, dissenting, emigrating, and alienating. The professionalization of the scholar, and, in turn, the pose of the vernacular rhetorician and philologist, was a means by which émigrés, exiles, dissenters, and the socially estranged gained private worth and public legitimacy. This is a book, therefore, about the academic’s search for institutional and intellectual belonging. By defining a rhetoric of error in professional self-shaping, by recalibrating the impact of canonical writers and readers, and by resuscitating long-neglected but historically vital early scholars, this book hopes to illuminate the texture of academic culture and the formation of university disciplines. Indeed, it hopes to show how scholarship itself can be a form of personal illumination—an encounter with the sublime, a romance of reading.'
Νέος ἐφ' ἡμέρῃ ἥλιος.
Another coffeeshop, with L., to talk about my book. Protesters file in, signs in hand. They name the dead, denounce our silence as making us complicit. Of course, when they leave, L. and I turn to talk (talk) about Philando Castile for some time.
All the while, another patron, a man in his fifties plonking away at his computer, listens to us talk, unable to suppress his smirk.
Oh, how I wanted to smack it right off his face.
Yesterday's barista was showing protesters where they could hide their phones out of sight while they charged. Today's was bitterly recounting her story of someone who tried to use the bathroom without buying anything. 'I just want it to be done. It's been, like, a week!'.