The Intellectual Pineapple has an interesting vocabulary, observed Pliny the Elder. What do you think he means by the word 'quiddity'?
You should know, I said. Doesn't it come from the Latin 'quidditas', meaning essence?
I don't think so, said Pliny. I don't remember a word like that. It must be one of those new-fangled pseudo-philosophical medieval scholastic coinages.
That makes sense, I agreed. I wondered why it wasn't in the Latin dictionary. But 'quid' means 'what', right?
Right, said Pliny.
So 'quiddity' means 'whatness', obviously.
But what is the whatness of anything? asked Pliny.
It's the quality or qualities without which it wouldn't be itself, I said.
I don't hold with that sort of thing, said Pliny.
You never did think much of the Greeks did you, Pliny. Listen, take a simple example like a table. What are the things which constitute its essence, would you say?
A flat top, said Pliny, and four legs.
I agree about the flat top, I said, but it might have more or less legs.
Alright said Pliny. A flat top, and any number of legs between three and infinity.
Two and infinity.
A table with only two legs would fall over, said Pliny. It wouldn't constitute a proper table.
You are wrong, Pliny. I said. I have seen a table with only two legs. Not only that but the legs were both at the same end. At the other end there was a cross-piece with two semicircles cut out of it and these were placed over your legs when you sat in your chair.
Galloping Jupiter! said Pliny. There is no quiddity in such a table. No whatness that makes it a table. If I were to coin a word for such a singular table it would be 'haecceity', or 'thisness'.
Too late Pliny, That pseudo-philosophical medieval scholar Duns Scotus has beaten you to it.
Pliny's eyebrows shot up like two semicircles in the cross-piece of a haecceitous table.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Rainer Maria Rilke
What would the Intellectual Pineapple make of Rainer Maria Rilke, I wonder?
Unfortunately, it will be hard to find out, as there is only a quarter of him left, but we can try.
Pineapple, what do you think of Rilke?
..t ...ch! Brr...
This isn't working. However I may be able to channel him.....
Yes.....he's coming through....
Hello.....I am the Intellectual Pineapple......do you have a question for me?
Yes. What do you think of Rainer Maria Rilke?
That depends. Is she a woman with a man's name or a man with a woman's name?
He is a man with a man's name. He altered his first name from Rene to Rainer on the advice of his psychoanalyst girlfriend, because Rene sounded too feminine.
What? I may be just a pineapple, but, shouldn't she have advised him to go the whole hog?
You mean get rid of Maria as well?
Of course I mean get rid of Maria as well. Didn't it occur to either of them that Maria was more feminine than Rene?
I don't know. Maybe it wasn't allowed. Perhaps it was disrespectful. Anyway, Pineapple, you are avoiding the question : What do you think of Rilke?
I admire him, he must have been very modern in his day. He tries to get to the very essence of things, their inner quiddity, so to speak. I was impressed by his description of the exposed wall. I should be interested to read some of his poems.
What a shame there is only one quarter of you left.
Yes, that is a shame. How am I, by the way?
Delicious. One of the best.
Thank you. Well I shall go now. Just one thing...
What?
What was the girlfriend's name?
Lou.
Unfortunately, it will be hard to find out, as there is only a quarter of him left, but we can try.
Pineapple, what do you think of Rilke?
..t ...ch! Brr...
This isn't working. However I may be able to channel him.....
Yes.....he's coming through....
Hello.....I am the Intellectual Pineapple......do you have a question for me?
Yes. What do you think of Rainer Maria Rilke?
That depends. Is she a woman with a man's name or a man with a woman's name?
He is a man with a man's name. He altered his first name from Rene to Rainer on the advice of his psychoanalyst girlfriend, because Rene sounded too feminine.
What? I may be just a pineapple, but, shouldn't she have advised him to go the whole hog?
You mean get rid of Maria as well?
Of course I mean get rid of Maria as well. Didn't it occur to either of them that Maria was more feminine than Rene?
I don't know. Maybe it wasn't allowed. Perhaps it was disrespectful. Anyway, Pineapple, you are avoiding the question : What do you think of Rilke?
I admire him, he must have been very modern in his day. He tries to get to the very essence of things, their inner quiddity, so to speak. I was impressed by his description of the exposed wall. I should be interested to read some of his poems.
What a shame there is only one quarter of you left.
Yes, that is a shame. How am I, by the way?
Delicious. One of the best.
Thank you. Well I shall go now. Just one thing...
What?
What was the girlfriend's name?
Lou.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Rainer
Why am I here, on Union Street? All by myself on the footpath. Under the narrow eave of a carport with cream rollerdoors. Staring at nothing.
It's raining that's why. It's raining hard. I'm waiting for someone to come and get me. I'm sad.
My hair is dripping; my scarf feels damp on the back of my neck. I'm wearing a black coat; I'm carrying a purple shopping bag. Inside the shopping bag the items are damp. I'm worried about the Weetbix in its cardboard box. The box is swelling.
In front of me is the street. Union Street. A quiet little street. Opposite me, a cream fence, and a tree. It's a small tree, with some autumn leaves, yellow, red, green, still clinging to the lower branches. The upper branches are bare.
The sky above the fence is dark grey, and the sky directly above me is white. There is a flash. And rumbling thunder. The sky's secret. The rain is easing.
To my left, a fence covered with a creeper. Orange trumpet flowers, waxy green leaves shining and wet. Quivering.
It's raining that's why. It's raining hard. I'm waiting for someone to come and get me. I'm sad.
My hair is dripping; my scarf feels damp on the back of my neck. I'm wearing a black coat; I'm carrying a purple shopping bag. Inside the shopping bag the items are damp. I'm worried about the Weetbix in its cardboard box. The box is swelling.
In front of me is the street. Union Street. A quiet little street. Opposite me, a cream fence, and a tree. It's a small tree, with some autumn leaves, yellow, red, green, still clinging to the lower branches. The upper branches are bare.
The sky above the fence is dark grey, and the sky directly above me is white. There is a flash. And rumbling thunder. The sky's secret. The rain is easing.
To my left, a fence covered with a creeper. Orange trumpet flowers, waxy green leaves shining and wet. Quivering.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
The Waiting Room
I'm in the very corner of the eye doctor's waiting room, waiting.
I'm waiting for my mum who's having an injection in her eye. I don't want to think about it. I'm reading my book.
It's The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, by Rainer Maria Rilke, and I just started it this morning.
The waiting room is full of old people, waiting for their drops to take effect, and the people who have come with them, reading magazines. The youngest person in the room is the receptionist.
An old woman in a blue coat comes in. I'm early because I caught the bus, she says. But your appointment is tomorrow, says the receptionist. The old woman turns to leave.
My book is not the best one to be reading. Once, says Rilke, people knew that they bore their death within them, like the stone within a fruit. These days (1910) you die as you happen to die; you die the death that comes with your illness.
I look over at the magazine rack. Tucked down the side is a yellow children's book called Bunny and His Friends.
I wish I was reading that.
I'm waiting for my mum who's having an injection in her eye. I don't want to think about it. I'm reading my book.
It's The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, by Rainer Maria Rilke, and I just started it this morning.
The waiting room is full of old people, waiting for their drops to take effect, and the people who have come with them, reading magazines. The youngest person in the room is the receptionist.
An old woman in a blue coat comes in. I'm early because I caught the bus, she says. But your appointment is tomorrow, says the receptionist. The old woman turns to leave.
My book is not the best one to be reading. Once, says Rilke, people knew that they bore their death within them, like the stone within a fruit. These days (1910) you die as you happen to die; you die the death that comes with your illness.
I look over at the magazine rack. Tucked down the side is a yellow children's book called Bunny and His Friends.
I wish I was reading that.
The Intellectual Pineapple.
Every week we buy a pineapple from the Central Market. Every week we take a photograph of our pineapple before we eat it.
This week's pineapple was wearing reading glasses, and looking at the cover of Victor Hugo's Toilers of the Sea. I called it the Intellectual Pineapple.
That was on Friday. Since then, I have found myself reading the final chapters of The Toilers of the Sea through the eyes of the Intellectual Pineapple.
This hasn't been much of a problem as The Intellectual Pineapple and I see pretty much eye to eye on most things.
We worried as Gilliatt faced the dangers of the storm. We trembled as he escaped the clutches of the Giant Squid ( for that is what it was), we shivered as he discovered the skeleton of Captain Clubin in an underwater cave, covered with dead crabs, which had eaten his flesh. We exulted when Gilliatt found the leather belt containing the seventy thousand francs. And we looked forward to his marriage to the beautiful Deruchette on his return home.
But it all went horribly wrong, for Deruchette had meanwhile fallen in love with the handsome new rector, who had just come into a fortune. The Pineapple remained confident. So what, said the Pineapple. She'll marry Gilliatt. She promised.
He couldn't believe it when Gilliatt did the noble thing, helped the young couple marry secretly and sail to England, and then drowned himself.
That's no way to behave, said the Intellectual Pineapple. Dammit, I identified with him!
This week's pineapple was wearing reading glasses, and looking at the cover of Victor Hugo's Toilers of the Sea. I called it the Intellectual Pineapple.
That was on Friday. Since then, I have found myself reading the final chapters of The Toilers of the Sea through the eyes of the Intellectual Pineapple.
This hasn't been much of a problem as The Intellectual Pineapple and I see pretty much eye to eye on most things.
We worried as Gilliatt faced the dangers of the storm. We trembled as he escaped the clutches of the Giant Squid ( for that is what it was), we shivered as he discovered the skeleton of Captain Clubin in an underwater cave, covered with dead crabs, which had eaten his flesh. We exulted when Gilliatt found the leather belt containing the seventy thousand francs. And we looked forward to his marriage to the beautiful Deruchette on his return home.
But it all went horribly wrong, for Deruchette had meanwhile fallen in love with the handsome new rector, who had just come into a fortune. The Pineapple remained confident. So what, said the Pineapple. She'll marry Gilliatt. She promised.
He couldn't believe it when Gilliatt did the noble thing, helped the young couple marry secretly and sail to England, and then drowned himself.
That's no way to behave, said the Intellectual Pineapple. Dammit, I identified with him!
Friday, June 25, 2010
The Interesting Question
We were listening to the famous composition by Mozart, nicknamed the Kegelstatt Trio.
Kegelstatt means 'skittle place'. The name of the Trio derives from the legend that Mozart composed it in a bowling alley.
Now the interesting question that occurred to me was this: Where are the sounds of bowling, and of skittles falling over? Because even a tin ear can recognise sounds like that.
I had listened hard, but never heard a rattle or a rumble or a crash. Then, however, I had a piece of luck.
I heard a man behind me say, to his companion: They made mistakes, they played a few wrong notes.
I turned around. Oh, I said, you must be Mozart! Can you tell me why this piece is called the Kegelstatt, when it has no sounds of bowling in it?
Madam, said the man, I am indeed Mozart, and the nickname of this Trio has caused me much embarrassment. But I am not to blame. In 1786 I wrote 12 duos for basset horns while in a bowling alley. You will agree that basset horns are well-suited to the sounds of bowling?
I nodded, although I could not quite see why.
Some weeks later, continued Mozart, I wrote this piece for some friends of mine. I called it a Trio for Clarinet, Viola and Piano. What can I do if posterity thinks because you wrote one thing in a bowling alley, you'll write the next thing in a bowling alley? It's patently absurd!
I could certainly agree with that. I thanked him for his explanation, and settled back to listen to the second Trio, and dream of squid hats.
Kegelstatt means 'skittle place'. The name of the Trio derives from the legend that Mozart composed it in a bowling alley.
Now the interesting question that occurred to me was this: Where are the sounds of bowling, and of skittles falling over? Because even a tin ear can recognise sounds like that.
I had listened hard, but never heard a rattle or a rumble or a crash. Then, however, I had a piece of luck.
I heard a man behind me say, to his companion: They made mistakes, they played a few wrong notes.
I turned around. Oh, I said, you must be Mozart! Can you tell me why this piece is called the Kegelstatt, when it has no sounds of bowling in it?
Madam, said the man, I am indeed Mozart, and the nickname of this Trio has caused me much embarrassment. But I am not to blame. In 1786 I wrote 12 duos for basset horns while in a bowling alley. You will agree that basset horns are well-suited to the sounds of bowling?
I nodded, although I could not quite see why.
Some weeks later, continued Mozart, I wrote this piece for some friends of mine. I called it a Trio for Clarinet, Viola and Piano. What can I do if posterity thinks because you wrote one thing in a bowling alley, you'll write the next thing in a bowling alley? It's patently absurd!
I could certainly agree with that. I thanked him for his explanation, and settled back to listen to the second Trio, and dream of squid hats.
Thinking About Squid Hats
A squid hat! What would that be like?
In fact there are many different types.
There is the white felt squid hat which looks a paper bag, that fits over your head. It has two round black plastic eyes, one for each side of the head. The arms are a little too short to look convincing, and the tentacles hang down in front of your shoulders like two thick white plaits. It's not a very good squid hat.
There is the horrid scary grey squid hat, with fake red blood marks and one detachable bloodshot eye. Not for the faint hearted.
There is the comical yellow squid hat, a high stuffed yellow felt cone with fins, yellow and black eyes, eight long furry yellow arms with suckers attached, and two longer tentacles that hang down at the front. A good all-purpose squid hat.
There is an attractive purple and pink velvet squid hat, suitable for ladies. This hat is in the form of a purple hood representing the squid's mantle, with fins well to the back, eight long purple velvet arms lined with pink, and two longer tentacles that may be used as gloves when the wearer's hands are inserted from behind. This enables the lady to wave them about and frighten her children.
I was thinking about these squid hats as I was walking in to town. Then I stopped thinking about them, because I had arrived.
I was thinking about the squid hats again when sitting in the Elder Hall listening to " Kegelstatt" by Mozart. Then I became distracted by an interesting question, that had nothing to do with squid hats, but something to do with "Kegelstatt".
In fact there are many different types.
There is the white felt squid hat which looks a paper bag, that fits over your head. It has two round black plastic eyes, one for each side of the head. The arms are a little too short to look convincing, and the tentacles hang down in front of your shoulders like two thick white plaits. It's not a very good squid hat.
There is the horrid scary grey squid hat, with fake red blood marks and one detachable bloodshot eye. Not for the faint hearted.
There is the comical yellow squid hat, a high stuffed yellow felt cone with fins, yellow and black eyes, eight long furry yellow arms with suckers attached, and two longer tentacles that hang down at the front. A good all-purpose squid hat.
There is an attractive purple and pink velvet squid hat, suitable for ladies. This hat is in the form of a purple hood representing the squid's mantle, with fins well to the back, eight long purple velvet arms lined with pink, and two longer tentacles that may be used as gloves when the wearer's hands are inserted from behind. This enables the lady to wave them about and frighten her children.
I was thinking about these squid hats as I was walking in to town. Then I stopped thinking about them, because I had arrived.
I was thinking about the squid hats again when sitting in the Elder Hall listening to " Kegelstatt" by Mozart. Then I became distracted by an interesting question, that had nothing to do with squid hats, but something to do with "Kegelstatt".
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
A Possible Giant Squid
And here we must leave Captain Clubin, naked but for his money belt, attached unwillingly by the foot to something at the bottom of the sea. What can it be? Why do I not tell you what it is?
I can tell you why. It is because Victor Hugo himself does not say. At least not yet.
The next one hundred pages are about Gilliat, a reclusive Guernsey fisherman, who sets out to salvage the engines of the Durande in the hope of winning the hand of Deruchette, the beautiful daughter of Messe Lethierry, the now-ruined owner of the wreck.
It may even be more than one hundred pages. That is all I have read so far. Certainly the next eight pages are about a storm. The last ten pages were about the wind. Before that we watched Gilliat painstakingly building a forge with his bare hands, making all sorts of useful nails and ropes and pulleys and goodness knows what else, camping on the larger of the two Douvres, eating shellfish and drinking rainwater, dismantling the wreck and salvaging the engines by lowering them onto the deck of his paunch. His paunch? Well that is what Hugo calls Gilliat's boat. I'm sure it must be a proper name for a boat of some sort.
However, I think I know what it was that grabbed Captain Clubin by the foot. A giant squid!
I know this because I have googled Victor Hugo and discovered that The Toilers of the Sea was a huge popular success in 1866, and that Parisians were fascinated by the giant squid depicted in the story, with its nightmarish anatomy and alarming single orifice. At that time little was known about the denizens of the deep. So fascinated were they that squid dishes, squid hats and squid parties became all the rage in Paris.
Of course if it turns out not to be a giant squid, I promise to let you know.
I can tell you why. It is because Victor Hugo himself does not say. At least not yet.
The next one hundred pages are about Gilliat, a reclusive Guernsey fisherman, who sets out to salvage the engines of the Durande in the hope of winning the hand of Deruchette, the beautiful daughter of Messe Lethierry, the now-ruined owner of the wreck.
It may even be more than one hundred pages. That is all I have read so far. Certainly the next eight pages are about a storm. The last ten pages were about the wind. Before that we watched Gilliat painstakingly building a forge with his bare hands, making all sorts of useful nails and ropes and pulleys and goodness knows what else, camping on the larger of the two Douvres, eating shellfish and drinking rainwater, dismantling the wreck and salvaging the engines by lowering them onto the deck of his paunch. His paunch? Well that is what Hugo calls Gilliat's boat. I'm sure it must be a proper name for a boat of some sort.
However, I think I know what it was that grabbed Captain Clubin by the foot. A giant squid!
I know this because I have googled Victor Hugo and discovered that The Toilers of the Sea was a huge popular success in 1866, and that Parisians were fascinated by the giant squid depicted in the story, with its nightmarish anatomy and alarming single orifice. At that time little was known about the denizens of the deep. So fascinated were they that squid dishes, squid hats and squid parties became all the rage in Paris.
Of course if it turns out not to be a giant squid, I promise to let you know.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Horreur!!
The passengers had cast off in the longboat, leaving Clubin alone on the Durande, with seventy five thousand francs in a small iron box attached to the leather belt around his waist. This was his moment of greatest triumph. All he had to do now was swim to the shore which was only a mile away.
Just then the fog lifted a little, and he saw with horror, not the Hanois rocks, as he expected, but the jagged pillars of the twin Douvres! He had steered too far to the west after a passenger from Guernsey had claimed he'd sighted the Hanois through the fog! The dreaded Douvres were the most isolated and terrible of rocks, with a narrow and sinister passageway between their black and dangerous sides. They were five leagues from the shore, an impossible distance for a man to swim.
All his plans had come to nought! He trembled. There was no way out!
But then, he saw a sail on the horizon! He could be rescued after all! But the Durande had foundered on the low rocks of the reef and would not be visible to the other boat. The only thing to do was swim over to the Homme, the highest rocky platform of the reef, climb it, and signal to the other boat from there.
He took off his clothes except for the leather belt with the iron box containing the seventy five thousand francs, and dived head first into the water from the high stern of the Durande. He touched bottom, skirted the underwater rocks, and was just about to kick off for the surface when......
SOMETHING GRABBED HOLD OF HIS FOOT!
Just then the fog lifted a little, and he saw with horror, not the Hanois rocks, as he expected, but the jagged pillars of the twin Douvres! He had steered too far to the west after a passenger from Guernsey had claimed he'd sighted the Hanois through the fog! The dreaded Douvres were the most isolated and terrible of rocks, with a narrow and sinister passageway between their black and dangerous sides. They were five leagues from the shore, an impossible distance for a man to swim.
All his plans had come to nought! He trembled. There was no way out!
But then, he saw a sail on the horizon! He could be rescued after all! But the Durande had foundered on the low rocks of the reef and would not be visible to the other boat. The only thing to do was swim over to the Homme, the highest rocky platform of the reef, climb it, and signal to the other boat from there.
He took off his clothes except for the leather belt with the iron box containing the seventy five thousand francs, and dived head first into the water from the high stern of the Durande. He touched bottom, skirted the underwater rocks, and was just about to kick off for the surface when......
SOMETHING GRABBED HOLD OF HIS FOOT!
Monday, June 21, 2010
The Wrong Rocks
Captain Clubin, had recognised, in St Malo, a certain Rantaine, who had stolen money from the owner of the steamship Durande, Messe Lethierry. Clubin, you will remember, was the captain of the Durande.
Captain Clubin had purchased a revolver. He had followed Rantaine to a remote clifftop where he was waiting to rendezvous with a smugglers' ship that would take him to South America. Clubin had forced Rantaine to hand over a leather belt containing seventy five thousand francs, before embarking. He claimed he was going to return the money to Messe Lethierry.
As Rantaine sailed away he was heard to shout back furiously that he would make sure someone on board his ship wrote to Messe Lethierry to tell him what had happened.
This is why Captain Clubin feared the postbox of the sea. For he had no intention of giving the money back to the owner of the Durande. Instead, he planned to run the Durande aground on the return trip to Guernsey, send the passengers off in a lifeboat, and pretend that he was going down with the ship. But being a good swimmer, his real intention was to swim ashore and start a new life with the money.
Little did he know that due to a set of misunderstandings and a thick fog, he would run the ship aground upon the wrong set of rocks!......
Captain Clubin had purchased a revolver. He had followed Rantaine to a remote clifftop where he was waiting to rendezvous with a smugglers' ship that would take him to South America. Clubin had forced Rantaine to hand over a leather belt containing seventy five thousand francs, before embarking. He claimed he was going to return the money to Messe Lethierry.
As Rantaine sailed away he was heard to shout back furiously that he would make sure someone on board his ship wrote to Messe Lethierry to tell him what had happened.
This is why Captain Clubin feared the postbox of the sea. For he had no intention of giving the money back to the owner of the Durande. Instead, he planned to run the Durande aground on the return trip to Guernsey, send the passengers off in a lifeboat, and pretend that he was going down with the ship. But being a good swimmer, his real intention was to swim ashore and start a new life with the money.
Little did he know that due to a set of misunderstandings and a thick fog, he would run the ship aground upon the wrong set of rocks!......
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Postbox of the Sea, continued
Mountains to right of you, mountains to left of you; penguins everywhere, and stormy petrels. A fearful place! Mille saints mille singes! What a battering you get there! continued Captain Gertrais.
In other words, it is a devilish coast. Such jagged rocks and reefs ! And then you come to Port Famine, which is the worst of all, with the heaviest breakers you've seen in all your life. And there you see these two words written in red: POST OFFICE .
On a rock a hundred feet high is a tall post with a barrel hanging from it. The barrel is the post box of the sea. Every vessel that passes sends a boat to the barrel with their mail. Ships coming from the Atlantic post their letters for Europe, and ships coming from the Pacific post their letters for America. The barrel is made fast to the post with a chain. It has a good hinged lid, but no lock or padlock. And it rains! And it snows! And it hails! And what a dirty sea.....
So, you get the picture. Victor Hugo's postbox of the sea was certainly a dangerous letterbox. But Captain Clubin had further reason to believe it dangerous, for earlier that morning he had committed a crime, and planned to commit another the following day......
In other words, it is a devilish coast. Such jagged rocks and reefs ! And then you come to Port Famine, which is the worst of all, with the heaviest breakers you've seen in all your life. And there you see these two words written in red: POST OFFICE .
On a rock a hundred feet high is a tall post with a barrel hanging from it. The barrel is the post box of the sea. Every vessel that passes sends a boat to the barrel with their mail. Ships coming from the Atlantic post their letters for Europe, and ships coming from the Pacific post their letters for America. The barrel is made fast to the post with a chain. It has a good hinged lid, but no lock or padlock. And it rains! And it snows! And it hails! And what a dirty sea.....
So, you get the picture. Victor Hugo's postbox of the sea was certainly a dangerous letterbox. But Captain Clubin had further reason to believe it dangerous, for earlier that morning he had committed a crime, and planned to commit another the following day......
Saturday, June 19, 2010
The Postbox of the Sea
It is 1820 or thereabouts. In the downstairs room of an inn in St Malo, Captain Gertrais, an old ocean-going captain, is talking with Captain Clubin of the steamship Durande. Captain Gertrais is telling Captain Clubin about the postbox of the sea.
What do you mean by the postbox of the sea?
You don't know what that is, Captain Clubin?
No.
When you pass the Strait of Magellan ....
Well?
Snow everywhere, always rough weather, vile winds, a foul sea.
What then?
When you have rounded Cape Monmouth ....
Then?
Then you round Cape Valentine.
And then?
Then you round Cape Isidore.
And then?
Then you round Cape Anna.
Alright, but what is the postbox of the sea you talk about?
I'm coming to that.
What do you mean by the postbox of the sea?
You don't know what that is, Captain Clubin?
No.
When you pass the Strait of Magellan ....
Well?
Snow everywhere, always rough weather, vile winds, a foul sea.
What then?
When you have rounded Cape Monmouth ....
Then?
Then you round Cape Valentine.
And then?
Then you round Cape Isidore.
And then?
Then you round Cape Anna.
Alright, but what is the postbox of the sea you talk about?
I'm coming to that.
I have quoted Victor Hugo at length, because he is an excellent writer. He does not hesitate to use over half a page to illustrate the old ocean-going captain's way of building up a story. From here, the old ocean-going captain goes on to explain about the postbox of the sea.....
(I'm coming to that).
Friday, June 18, 2010
Coincidence of Coincidences
Due to a coincidence I now have another dangerous letterbox story to relate.
But first, the coincidence.
No, first, the second coincidence, which was even more remarkable than the first, although, alas, having nothing to do with the dangerousness of letterboxes.
The second coincidence: Due to the first coincidence, I decided to look up the meaning of the word coincidence in the dictionary. Imagine my surprise when I opened the dictionary at the very page on which the word coincidence was to be found. Not only that, it was in bold type at the top right of the right hand page, so it was the first word I saw.
The meaning of the word coincidence: a chance occurrence of events remarkable either for being simultaneous or for apparently being connected.
Confession: I must confess here that the above definition comes from the Collins dictionary, and not the one in which the coincidence occurred.
Reason: The Collins definition was the shorter of the two.
Now for the first coincidence. As you may recall, I have been writing about dangerous letterboxes. Concurrently, I have been reading Victor Hugo's Toilers of the Sea.
This morning I read Book 5, Chapter 9, entitled, Useful Information For Those Expecting, Or Fearing, Letters From Overseas.
In this chapter is a description of what must surely be one of the most dangerous letterboxes of all time.
Time, however, having caught up with us, further revelation must wait until tomorrow.
But first, the coincidence.
No, first, the second coincidence, which was even more remarkable than the first, although, alas, having nothing to do with the dangerousness of letterboxes.
The second coincidence: Due to the first coincidence, I decided to look up the meaning of the word coincidence in the dictionary. Imagine my surprise when I opened the dictionary at the very page on which the word coincidence was to be found. Not only that, it was in bold type at the top right of the right hand page, so it was the first word I saw.
The meaning of the word coincidence: a chance occurrence of events remarkable either for being simultaneous or for apparently being connected.
Confession: I must confess here that the above definition comes from the Collins dictionary, and not the one in which the coincidence occurred.
Reason: The Collins definition was the shorter of the two.
Now for the first coincidence. As you may recall, I have been writing about dangerous letterboxes. Concurrently, I have been reading Victor Hugo's Toilers of the Sea.
This morning I read Book 5, Chapter 9, entitled, Useful Information For Those Expecting, Or Fearing, Letters From Overseas.
In this chapter is a description of what must surely be one of the most dangerous letterboxes of all time.
Time, however, having caught up with us, further revelation must wait until tomorrow.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
"Be Carefull"
And we are not the only ones. Some nights when walking I push on the spring-loaded flaps of letterboxes with my finger to see how many are de-sprung. The answer is : so far, only one.
Not many of us are in a hurry to relieve postmen of personal responsibility for their own digits.
There is no doubt letterboxes can be dangerous. Not only for the postman, as you shall see. I have a letterbox story of my own which illustrates this very well. To relate this story I must take you back to February, 1998.
The story is recorded in my diary, which proves it to be factual, and here it is:
Tuesday 3rd February 1998
Last night, we saw these words written in felt pen on a row of letterboxes outside some flats in Queen Street, Norwood:
"Police are patrolling these letterboxes as faeces are being placed in some of the boxes so be carefull".
The message was placed on the road side. not the flats side, that is, it was on the delivery side and not the faeces recipients' side. This makes you wonder who is being warned to be "carefull". Is a watchful sympathiser warning the faeces dumper to keep an eye open for the police? It would seem so.
Not many of us are in a hurry to relieve postmen of personal responsibility for their own digits.
There is no doubt letterboxes can be dangerous. Not only for the postman, as you shall see. I have a letterbox story of my own which illustrates this very well. To relate this story I must take you back to February, 1998.
The story is recorded in my diary, which proves it to be factual, and here it is:
Tuesday 3rd February 1998
Last night, we saw these words written in felt pen on a row of letterboxes outside some flats in Queen Street, Norwood:
"Police are patrolling these letterboxes as faeces are being placed in some of the boxes so be carefull".
The message was placed on the road side. not the flats side, that is, it was on the delivery side and not the faeces recipients' side. This makes you wonder who is being warned to be "carefull". Is a watchful sympathiser warning the faeces dumper to keep an eye open for the police? It would seem so.
So there you have it, a salutory tale from 1998. Of course such things are less likely to happen these days.
It would be a foolhardy public nuisance indeed who would attempt to squeeze a turd through one of those spring-loaded flaps.
Letterbox Stories
I don't hold with letterboxes, said Pliny. In my day, we had slaves to deliver our letters personally.
Were they called postmen? I asked.
They were called tabellarii, said Pliny. And their services were available at a price. We also had the Cursus Publicus, which was used to deliver official mail.
How did that work?
Well, the mail was either carried in a horse-drawn vehicle called a cisium, with a box...
A letterbox! I interjected, gratuitously.
If you say so, said Pliny. Alternatively, it was carried by relays of men on horseback, which was a lot faster.
How fast? I asked.
They could travel 500 miles in 24 hours.
Remarkable! I said. You were very organised, you Romans.
We were, said Pliny. We were. But, he added, it was a dangerous business too. The mail carriers were always being set upon by robbers.
It's a dangerous business today as well, I said thoughtfully.
What? I fail to see how.......
Oh yes. Just a few weeks ago we got a letter from Australia Post asking us to remove the spring from our spring-tensioned letterbox.
Oh? Why was that?
It was because a postman had recently been injured while putting mail into a letterbox with that sort of spring.
Surely that wouldn't have resulted in much of an injury?
On the contrary. Unfortunately the injury resulted in the top of the postie's finger being amputated.
Great Jupiter! And I suppose you removed the spring straight away?
No, we didn't.
Oh, I see. Dangerous indeed.
Were they called postmen? I asked.
They were called tabellarii, said Pliny. And their services were available at a price. We also had the Cursus Publicus, which was used to deliver official mail.
How did that work?
Well, the mail was either carried in a horse-drawn vehicle called a cisium, with a box...
A letterbox! I interjected, gratuitously.
If you say so, said Pliny. Alternatively, it was carried by relays of men on horseback, which was a lot faster.
How fast? I asked.
They could travel 500 miles in 24 hours.
Remarkable! I said. You were very organised, you Romans.
We were, said Pliny. We were. But, he added, it was a dangerous business too. The mail carriers were always being set upon by robbers.
It's a dangerous business today as well, I said thoughtfully.
What? I fail to see how.......
Oh yes. Just a few weeks ago we got a letter from Australia Post asking us to remove the spring from our spring-tensioned letterbox.
Oh? Why was that?
It was because a postman had recently been injured while putting mail into a letterbox with that sort of spring.
Surely that wouldn't have resulted in much of an injury?
On the contrary. Unfortunately the injury resulted in the top of the postie's finger being amputated.
Great Jupiter! And I suppose you removed the spring straight away?
No, we didn't.
Oh, I see. Dangerous indeed.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Regret and Wisdom
What did you mean, 'regret'? asked Pliny the Elder.
I mean the regret of missed opportunities, I replied.
Opportunities for what? asked Pliny.
Photo opportunities, I said. Let me give you an example. I was in Hyde Park with my camera. I saw a letterbox set into a whitewashed wall, drenched in sunlight. The letterbox was decorated with a fringe of pink crepe paper, which rustled in the breeze.
I assume you didn't stop and take a photograph, which you regretted later on?
That's true. I kept on walking with the camera in my pocket and the letterbox receded into history.
And mystery?
Yes and mystery. Why decorate a letterbox that way? It would have made it difficult to put the letters in. And if it rained, the letters would get stained with pink.
Perhaps it was someone's birthday, suggested Pliny.
Perhaps it was. Anyway, it doesn't matter now.
It isn't lost, said Pliny, just because you didn't photograph it. You've remembered it, and even written something down. So you have captured it after all.
But I might be remembering it wrong. If I had the photo I could see.
The photograph might also have remembered it wrong, said Pliny sagely.
I mean the regret of missed opportunities, I replied.
Opportunities for what? asked Pliny.
Photo opportunities, I said. Let me give you an example. I was in Hyde Park with my camera. I saw a letterbox set into a whitewashed wall, drenched in sunlight. The letterbox was decorated with a fringe of pink crepe paper, which rustled in the breeze.
I assume you didn't stop and take a photograph, which you regretted later on?
That's true. I kept on walking with the camera in my pocket and the letterbox receded into history.
And mystery?
Yes and mystery. Why decorate a letterbox that way? It would have made it difficult to put the letters in. And if it rained, the letters would get stained with pink.
Perhaps it was someone's birthday, suggested Pliny.
Perhaps it was. Anyway, it doesn't matter now.
It isn't lost, said Pliny, just because you didn't photograph it. You've remembered it, and even written something down. So you have captured it after all.
But I might be remembering it wrong. If I had the photo I could see.
The photograph might also have remembered it wrong, said Pliny sagely.
Monday, June 14, 2010
My Camera
I have a new camera. It's not replacing an old camera. Until now, I've never had a camera of my own.
It's in a box, a little cardboard box, with the top torn off. It has a special cable, that likes to stay curled up.
The cable is like me. I like to stay curled up. But I wanted the camera. So I have to change my modus operandi.
My modus operandi, before I had the camera, was simple. I looked at things, and turned them into sentences.
Now, if I've remembered to take my camera with me, I look at things, such as
a row of bicycles outside a shop
a row of wooden ducks
an Edwardian gentleman speaking to a lady through a listening tube, painted on a fence.
a smiling plaster chef outside an antique shop, holding up a sign
yellow, blue and red-and-white posts along a linear park trail
water spreading over sand
and yachts at the end of pathways through the dunes
...with a view to what they'll look like in a frame.
That is fine, it's good to see things differently. But what I must get over is regret.
As yet, this hasn't worked out very well.
It's in a box, a little cardboard box, with the top torn off. It has a special cable, that likes to stay curled up.
The cable is like me. I like to stay curled up. But I wanted the camera. So I have to change my modus operandi.
My modus operandi, before I had the camera, was simple. I looked at things, and turned them into sentences.
Now, if I've remembered to take my camera with me, I look at things, such as
a row of bicycles outside a shop
a row of wooden ducks
an Edwardian gentleman speaking to a lady through a listening tube, painted on a fence.
a smiling plaster chef outside an antique shop, holding up a sign
yellow, blue and red-and-white posts along a linear park trail
water spreading over sand
and yachts at the end of pathways through the dunes
...with a view to what they'll look like in a frame.
That is fine, it's good to see things differently. But what I must get over is regret.
As yet, this hasn't worked out very well.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Up-to-date Musical Thing
I'm already going, he'd said. Then I woke up.
Did he mean that the dream was over, or that he was going to the up-to-date musical thing at the Science Exchange? I resolved to look out for a man in red trousers.
The Science Exchange that evening was hosting a presentation of Works of Slightly Misused Technology, by an experimental electronic music composer and hardware hacker, with the aid of some local musicians.
We sat upstairs because the downstairs bar was full. From here we looked down on the jacket and jeans clad musician-professor, who sat at a desk fiddling with a laptop. A note was played on a trumpet by an assistant musician and an electronic green scribbly pattern appeared on a screen on the wall. I wondered what was going on. I looked at the program. I learned that I was hearing feedback on a self-stabilising network of circuitry. Everyone else looked seriously entranced. I looked seriously entranced as well.
The next piece was the ultimate in geekitude. Six men in shapeless jumpers and baggy brown pants stood around a defunct piece of circuitry with wires sticking out of it. The professor sat at his desk working his laptop, which was somehow connected.The six men poked at the circuit-board with electronic probes, making unmusical oscillating electronic sounds until someone we couldn't see told them to stop. I suspected it was the heavy set bearded man in the black and white striped beanie who was sitting at a table nearby drinking beer from a glass and using one finger to beat out the time. He appeared to be in disguise. I attempted to look at his trousers, but I couldn't see under his table.
Did he mean that the dream was over, or that he was going to the up-to-date musical thing at the Science Exchange? I resolved to look out for a man in red trousers.
The Science Exchange that evening was hosting a presentation of Works of Slightly Misused Technology, by an experimental electronic music composer and hardware hacker, with the aid of some local musicians.
We sat upstairs because the downstairs bar was full. From here we looked down on the jacket and jeans clad musician-professor, who sat at a desk fiddling with a laptop. A note was played on a trumpet by an assistant musician and an electronic green scribbly pattern appeared on a screen on the wall. I wondered what was going on. I looked at the program. I learned that I was hearing feedback on a self-stabilising network of circuitry. Everyone else looked seriously entranced. I looked seriously entranced as well.
The next piece was the ultimate in geekitude. Six men in shapeless jumpers and baggy brown pants stood around a defunct piece of circuitry with wires sticking out of it. The professor sat at his desk working his laptop, which was somehow connected.The six men poked at the circuit-board with electronic probes, making unmusical oscillating electronic sounds until someone we couldn't see told them to stop. I suspected it was the heavy set bearded man in the black and white striped beanie who was sitting at a table nearby drinking beer from a glass and using one finger to beat out the time. He appeared to be in disguise. I attempted to look at his trousers, but I couldn't see under his table.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Double Stops
It was time to wake up, but Haydn's musical idea intrigued me.
What are double stops? I asked him.
They are like nose cones, said Haydn, playfully. They temporarily stop the flow, so to speak. You make them by placing a finger across two strings at once and plucking them.
Oh yuck! I said, Two strings of what?
Your violin, said Haydn, looking serious again. Would you like to hear the beginning of my tune?
No, I said. Oh.... alright. Hum it. But first, have you got a handkerchief?
Of course, I never go anywhere without one. Now, listen. It's a string quartet :
The first violin goes: Mmmmmm-huh.....mmm-huh...mmmmmmm-huh...Double stop! Double stop! Eeeeeeeeeee!
The second violin joins in: Nnnnnnnnn-huh....nnn-huh...nnnnnnnnnn-huh... Double stop! Double stop! Lah lah lah!
Then the viola: Sniffety-sneeee! Sniffety-sneeeeee! Oo-oo-ooh!
And finally the cello: Chooooh-achooh-achooh! Double stop! Double stop! Achooooh!
He stopped. How do you like it so far? he asked.
I like it! I replied. It's very up-to-date.
That's me, said Haydn. Up-to-date.
I'm going to an up-to-date musical thing tonight at the Science Exchange, I said. Perhaps you'd like to come?
I'm already going, said Haydn.
What are double stops? I asked him.
They are like nose cones, said Haydn, playfully. They temporarily stop the flow, so to speak. You make them by placing a finger across two strings at once and plucking them.
Oh yuck! I said, Two strings of what?
Your violin, said Haydn, looking serious again. Would you like to hear the beginning of my tune?
No, I said. Oh.... alright. Hum it. But first, have you got a handkerchief?
Of course, I never go anywhere without one. Now, listen. It's a string quartet :
The first violin goes: Mmmmmm-huh.....mmm-huh...mmmmmmm-huh...Double stop! Double stop! Eeeeeeeeeee!
The second violin joins in: Nnnnnnnnn-huh....nnn-huh...nnnnnnnnnn-huh... Double stop! Double stop! Lah lah lah!
Then the viola: Sniffety-sneeee! Sniffety-sneeeeee! Oo-oo-ooh!
And finally the cello: Chooooh-achooh-achooh! Double stop! Double stop! Achooooh!
He stopped. How do you like it so far? he asked.
I like it! I replied. It's very up-to-date.
That's me, said Haydn. Up-to-date.
I'm going to an up-to-date musical thing tonight at the Science Exchange, I said. Perhaps you'd like to come?
I'm already going, said Haydn.
Dream Nasal
Last night Haydn appeared to me in a dream, wearing red trousers.
Hey! I said to him, in the dream. Are you German?
Nein! he replied. I am Austrian. But do not worry, I speak good English.
Sorry, I said. It was your red trousers. As you're here, perhaps you might explain to me about fifths.
I do not think it would do any good, he replied. I have come to you in a dream for a musical purpose, yes, but a more general one. I wish to explain to you why I was popular and why I still am.
But I already know, I said, because I have googled you.
Have you indeed. What do they say of me?
They say you were popular because you had learned to please and delight a prince. That you had a sense of humour, and were famous for your rollicking finales.
That is all?
No, no. They say you developed the classical forms with your fluidity of phrasing, and your use of classic counterpoint.
Very good. All that is true. Did they say anything about my personal life?
They said you married the sister of the woman you loved, and were unhappy, and that you suffered from nasal polyposis.
Nasal polyposis, he sniffed, is that what they call it?
Yes, it was a very agonising and debilitating disease in the 18th century.
Tell me about it! said Haydn. Is there a cure?
Not a cure. Nowadays they treat it with steroids, and sometimes surgery. The polyps may grow back though.
Well, well, said Haydn. Never mind. That gives me an idea for a rather amusing tune, with double stops.
Hey! I said to him, in the dream. Are you German?
Nein! he replied. I am Austrian. But do not worry, I speak good English.
Sorry, I said. It was your red trousers. As you're here, perhaps you might explain to me about fifths.
I do not think it would do any good, he replied. I have come to you in a dream for a musical purpose, yes, but a more general one. I wish to explain to you why I was popular and why I still am.
But I already know, I said, because I have googled you.
Have you indeed. What do they say of me?
They say you were popular because you had learned to please and delight a prince. That you had a sense of humour, and were famous for your rollicking finales.
That is all?
No, no. They say you developed the classical forms with your fluidity of phrasing, and your use of classic counterpoint.
Very good. All that is true. Did they say anything about my personal life?
They said you married the sister of the woman you loved, and were unhappy, and that you suffered from nasal polyposis.
Nasal polyposis, he sniffed, is that what they call it?
Yes, it was a very agonising and debilitating disease in the 18th century.
Tell me about it! said Haydn. Is there a cure?
Not a cure. Nowadays they treat it with steroids, and sometimes surgery. The polyps may grow back though.
Well, well, said Haydn. Never mind. That gives me an idea for a rather amusing tune, with double stops.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Making Sense of Haydn
It's Friday. I'm at the Lunch Hour Concert with my mum. We've arrived early because it's the Australian String Quartet. We're sitting in the middle of the fifth row from the front, behind two empty seats. We have a good view of the stage from here.
Two of the tallest men ever sit down in front of us. Our row's filled up, we can't move now. My man has dark curly hair and a black cardigan. He looks like Alain De Botton, before Alain De Botton went bald, but not before the balding had begun, ever so slightly. My mother's man is even taller than mine. He has grey hair, a black jumper and red trousers. I deduce that he is German. The men start talking. Alain de Botton is English. The German is German, I was right.
I read the program. Haydn wrote a squillion string quartets and the two we are to hear are good ones. The first one features a Witches Minuet and the sounds of a donkey. It features interlocking intervals of descending fifths, and later on, thirteenths. I resolve to listen out for them.
Meanwhile I am trying to listen to Alain de Botton and the German. Try as I might, I can't catch what they're saying. Only the word economics, light, and intersecting lines.
The Australian String Quartet come on. They are wearing black and green and looking very pretty. Rachel's hair is cherry red, at the ends. I listen for the Witches Minuet. I have to wait a long time, but I hear it, because I'm following the program notes. I don't identify The Donkey, or the thirteenths. Or the fifths.
The concert is over and the two tall men remain seated. Alain de Botton says something I can't catch, except for 'stream of conciousness'. The German laughs. They stand up. I see his red trousers again.
I couldn't hear that properly, says my mum. My hearing aids were switched off.
On our way out we stop at the desk to ask if anyone has found my mum's umbrella. Jeanette goes downstairs to have a look. Claire the manager engages us in conversation. Aren't they wonderful! she says. And so are those quartets! A lot of people think that Haydn is a bit wishy washy, but these two pieces are so feisty.
Feisty, yes, I suppose that's what they are. Jeanette can't find the umbrella.
Later, my mum buys a new one.
Two of the tallest men ever sit down in front of us. Our row's filled up, we can't move now. My man has dark curly hair and a black cardigan. He looks like Alain De Botton, before Alain De Botton went bald, but not before the balding had begun, ever so slightly. My mother's man is even taller than mine. He has grey hair, a black jumper and red trousers. I deduce that he is German. The men start talking. Alain de Botton is English. The German is German, I was right.
I read the program. Haydn wrote a squillion string quartets and the two we are to hear are good ones. The first one features a Witches Minuet and the sounds of a donkey. It features interlocking intervals of descending fifths, and later on, thirteenths. I resolve to listen out for them.
Meanwhile I am trying to listen to Alain de Botton and the German. Try as I might, I can't catch what they're saying. Only the word economics, light, and intersecting lines.
The Australian String Quartet come on. They are wearing black and green and looking very pretty. Rachel's hair is cherry red, at the ends. I listen for the Witches Minuet. I have to wait a long time, but I hear it, because I'm following the program notes. I don't identify The Donkey, or the thirteenths. Or the fifths.
The concert is over and the two tall men remain seated. Alain de Botton says something I can't catch, except for 'stream of conciousness'. The German laughs. They stand up. I see his red trousers again.
I couldn't hear that properly, says my mum. My hearing aids were switched off.
On our way out we stop at the desk to ask if anyone has found my mum's umbrella. Jeanette goes downstairs to have a look. Claire the manager engages us in conversation. Aren't they wonderful! she says. And so are those quartets! A lot of people think that Haydn is a bit wishy washy, but these two pieces are so feisty.
Feisty, yes, I suppose that's what they are. Jeanette can't find the umbrella.
Later, my mum buys a new one.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Sophistry
The more I thought about what Pliny the Elder had said, the more I became convinced that he was using sophistry.
Pliny, I said, it isn't true our clothes are upside down when we look at them. It's not our clothes that are upside down, but our eyes.
Go on, said Pliny.
You see, if we were to turn around with our head still in the looking-down-at-our-clothes position, and looked into the mirror......yes I realise this would not be easy..... perhaps by crooking our arm and looking through the gap between arm and body, then we would see the clothes on the person in the mirror upside down as well.
I cannot argue with your logic, said Pliny. And the person in the mirror would be you, in that case.
You were easy to convince, Pliny!
I saw you trying it in front of the mirror, just now. It was a convincing proof.
I do enjoy philosophy, I said.
Yes indeed, agreed Pliny. We have acquitted ourselves well. Nor could we be accused of 'digesting without eating' as Iris Murdoch accused her male philosophers of doing.
Why not, Pliny?
Because all of this resulted from the eating of a muffin.
So it did!
If it was a muffin, he added.
Of course it was a muffin, I muttered under my breath.
Pliny, I said, it isn't true our clothes are upside down when we look at them. It's not our clothes that are upside down, but our eyes.
Go on, said Pliny.
You see, if we were to turn around with our head still in the looking-down-at-our-clothes position, and looked into the mirror......yes I realise this would not be easy..... perhaps by crooking our arm and looking through the gap between arm and body, then we would see the clothes on the person in the mirror upside down as well.
I cannot argue with your logic, said Pliny. And the person in the mirror would be you, in that case.
You were easy to convince, Pliny!
I saw you trying it in front of the mirror, just now. It was a convincing proof.
I do enjoy philosophy, I said.
Yes indeed, agreed Pliny. We have acquitted ourselves well. Nor could we be accused of 'digesting without eating' as Iris Murdoch accused her male philosophers of doing.
Why not, Pliny?
Because all of this resulted from the eating of a muffin.
So it did!
If it was a muffin, he added.
Of course it was a muffin, I muttered under my breath.
Hume's Mirror
Yes, now I remember, I said. We saw Hume's Mirror at the Samstag Museum on the weekend. But you weren't there Pliny, how do you know about it?
I clicked on a Facebook link to it, said Pliny, and watched the video.
So you saw the mirror?
Yes, I saw it. It was a plain mirror in a frame with 'No object implies the existence of any other' printed in large letters across the central part of the mirror.
And you took it at face value, did you?
Should I not have?
No. Don't you think the artist was being ironic? Showing up a flaw in Hume's argument? Because what does a mirror do if not imply the existence of the person who's looking into it?
That, said Pliny, is a very shallow way of seeing it. Because Hume's argument is that it is only by experience, that is, memory, that we can infer the existence of one object from that of another.
How come you're so well up on it? I asked tetchily.
Pliny looked wise.
So, I said, what you're saying, and what Hume's saying, is that you can only infer your own existence by seeing yourself in the mirror if you remember what you look like.
Exactly, said Pliny. If you'd never seen yourself before, you wouldn't know it was you in the mirror.
But you would if the person in the mirror had the same clothes on as you, I said. Because you could see your clothes and the clothes of the reflected person at exactly the same time. If you both had the same orange jumper on, with a zipper, and balls of fluff stuck to the sleeves, and a bit of egg on the front, you could be absolutely certain it was you in the mirror.
No, said Pliny. You couldn't. You could only say you were seeing a reflection of a person who may or may not be you, because you don't know what you look like, and who is wearing clothes that look like yours but are the right way up, whereas yours when you look down at yourself are upside down
Oh, I said, looking down at myself. You're right.
I clicked on a Facebook link to it, said Pliny, and watched the video.
So you saw the mirror?
Yes, I saw it. It was a plain mirror in a frame with 'No object implies the existence of any other' printed in large letters across the central part of the mirror.
And you took it at face value, did you?
Should I not have?
No. Don't you think the artist was being ironic? Showing up a flaw in Hume's argument? Because what does a mirror do if not imply the existence of the person who's looking into it?
That, said Pliny, is a very shallow way of seeing it. Because Hume's argument is that it is only by experience, that is, memory, that we can infer the existence of one object from that of another.
How come you're so well up on it? I asked tetchily.
Pliny looked wise.
So, I said, what you're saying, and what Hume's saying, is that you can only infer your own existence by seeing yourself in the mirror if you remember what you look like.
Exactly, said Pliny. If you'd never seen yourself before, you wouldn't know it was you in the mirror.
But you would if the person in the mirror had the same clothes on as you, I said. Because you could see your clothes and the clothes of the reflected person at exactly the same time. If you both had the same orange jumper on, with a zipper, and balls of fluff stuck to the sleeves, and a bit of egg on the front, you could be absolutely certain it was you in the mirror.
No, said Pliny. You couldn't. You could only say you were seeing a reflection of a person who may or may not be you, because you don't know what you look like, and who is wearing clothes that look like yours but are the right way up, whereas yours when you look down at yourself are upside down
Oh, I said, looking down at myself. You're right.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Inferences and Implications
That doesn't sound like a muffin, frowned Pliny the Elder.
You mean my lunch the other day? Why not? I asked.
A muffin is a bread product, said Pliny, baked in small batches.
The modern muffin is more like a large cupcake, I said. That's what my lunch looked like.
But, argued Pliny, it was made from risotto.
It was shaped like a muffin, I insisted. So it was a muffin. I imagine it was baked in a muffin tray.
That does not make it a muffin, said Pliny. If I baked a lump of clay in a muffin tray, would it be a muffin?
Is this a cooking question or an art question? I asked.
I'm merely pointing out, said Pliny, that you have made an inference where no inference is due.
An object in the shape of a muffin, I said, implies a muffin tray, and a muffin tray implies a muffin.
No object implies the existence of any other, remarked Pliny.
Now that rings a bell, I said , trying to recall where I'd heard it.
Hume's Mirror, said Pliny. Don't you remember?
You mean my lunch the other day? Why not? I asked.
A muffin is a bread product, said Pliny, baked in small batches.
The modern muffin is more like a large cupcake, I said. That's what my lunch looked like.
But, argued Pliny, it was made from risotto.
It was shaped like a muffin, I insisted. So it was a muffin. I imagine it was baked in a muffin tray.
That does not make it a muffin, said Pliny. If I baked a lump of clay in a muffin tray, would it be a muffin?
Is this a cooking question or an art question? I asked.
I'm merely pointing out, said Pliny, that you have made an inference where no inference is due.
An object in the shape of a muffin, I said, implies a muffin tray, and a muffin tray implies a muffin.
No object implies the existence of any other, remarked Pliny.
Now that rings a bell, I said , trying to recall where I'd heard it.
Hume's Mirror, said Pliny. Don't you remember?
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Odd Lunch Out
Yesterday I had a strange lunch. I didn't want an egg and bacon roll, or minestrone soup, or a stout and beefsteak pie, or a sausage, or a cheese and tomato toastie. I was looking at the menu of a lunch van on wheels, out of doors.
Why are there no greens? I asked myself. If anything had lettuce in it I would have had that.
It was the Farmers Market. You could obviously go and buy a lettuce, but it wouldn't have been washed, and it would just have been a lettuce.
So I went back to the food hall, and looked again at the stalls. Cheese, honey, chutney, bread, cold pies and tarts, everything was the colour of pastry. and nothing was warmed up. It was a cold day too, I'm telling you, you'll feel sorry for me soon.
The last stall at the northern end sold slices of leek and gruyere tart, cold lentil pie, falafel, vegetable fritters and little pastry triangles the colour of cold feet.
But, at the end of the display, was a row of fluoro yellow pumpkin risotto and sweet chilli muffins with a green swirl through the middle. This was the greenest thing I had seen to eat other than the lettuce, broccoli, chard, cabbage, cauliflower, zucchini and other greens outside. So, tempted by the bright yellow muffin, which was also very cheap, I bought one and took it back to the outside table where my companions were eating.
They were eating egg and bacon rolls and hot minestrone soup. I opened my paper bag. What's that? they asked. Pumpkin risotto and sweet chilli muffin, I replied optimistically.
Now cooked rice loses texture when it's a day old. Pumpkin can be bland. And I never did discover what the green swirl was. It was just a green swirl tasting of nothing in particular, marking the point at which the muffin was to break in half, revealing a blob of cold sweet chilli sauce.
I ate the halves, breaking off each piece as though it would be my last. How was that? asked my companions.
It would have been nicer warm, I said, biting into an unwashed pear.
Why are there no greens? I asked myself. If anything had lettuce in it I would have had that.
It was the Farmers Market. You could obviously go and buy a lettuce, but it wouldn't have been washed, and it would just have been a lettuce.
So I went back to the food hall, and looked again at the stalls. Cheese, honey, chutney, bread, cold pies and tarts, everything was the colour of pastry. and nothing was warmed up. It was a cold day too, I'm telling you, you'll feel sorry for me soon.
The last stall at the northern end sold slices of leek and gruyere tart, cold lentil pie, falafel, vegetable fritters and little pastry triangles the colour of cold feet.
But, at the end of the display, was a row of fluoro yellow pumpkin risotto and sweet chilli muffins with a green swirl through the middle. This was the greenest thing I had seen to eat other than the lettuce, broccoli, chard, cabbage, cauliflower, zucchini and other greens outside. So, tempted by the bright yellow muffin, which was also very cheap, I bought one and took it back to the outside table where my companions were eating.
They were eating egg and bacon rolls and hot minestrone soup. I opened my paper bag. What's that? they asked. Pumpkin risotto and sweet chilli muffin, I replied optimistically.
Now cooked rice loses texture when it's a day old. Pumpkin can be bland. And I never did discover what the green swirl was. It was just a green swirl tasting of nothing in particular, marking the point at which the muffin was to break in half, revealing a blob of cold sweet chilli sauce.
I ate the halves, breaking off each piece as though it would be my last. How was that? asked my companions.
It would have been nicer warm, I said, biting into an unwashed pear.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Without Eating
But soon enough, Iris Murdoch's article arrived, and Belle et Bonne was obliged to show it to the others.
She handed each of them a copy, and they began reading silently.
After a few minutes, The VeloDrone broke the silence.
This was written by the Judi Dench one, wasn't it? he said.
Yes, said Belle et Bonne gloomily. But it's not that bad is it?
No, it's quite good, in parts, said The VeloDrone. What do you think, David?
I don't like this bit, said Le Bon David, and he read aloud: Philosophy! Empty thinking by ignorant conceited men who think they can digest without eating! What is she getting at?
She means male philosophers spend too much of their time going over the same old questions, and forget to enjoy life, said Madam Denis.
Oh does she? said Le Bon David huffily, and he continued reading:
As a young, Kate Winslet sort of woman, I used to write a great deal about good and evil, virtue and morality, and how we should strive to make ourselves better by paying more attention to one another. Oh, I wrote such wonderful things. I wrote novels, too, and my characters embodied my ideas. At this time also, I used to get about on a bicycle. I went on a bicycling holiday in France once, I recall, with a young man, a very young man, so young in fact that for the sake of respectability I was obliged to pretend to be his mother.....
Those were good times. Unfortunately later he found out that I used to work for the SS as a prison guard, and also that I was unable to read.......
Now that I am an older Judi Dench sort of woman, I spend my time trying to weasel my way into the lives of attractive but flawed young women like ..... well, like Kate Winslet, and bind them to me by means of blackmail. But when I am not doing this, I like to get about on a bicycle. Nothing is more conducive to the clarification of rational thought than to ride through the countryside on a beautiful summer's afternoon in a cotton print full-skirted dress, with a basket on the front. Of the bicycle, I mean. The basket being in case I feel inspired to go shopping.
Well, said the VeloDrone. It has a certain charm, but I can't help thinking she's having some sort of identity crisis.
Nonsense! said Madam Denis. It's brilliant! Well done, Iris! And well done, Belle et Bonne!
She handed each of them a copy, and they began reading silently.
After a few minutes, The VeloDrone broke the silence.
This was written by the Judi Dench one, wasn't it? he said.
Yes, said Belle et Bonne gloomily. But it's not that bad is it?
No, it's quite good, in parts, said The VeloDrone. What do you think, David?
I don't like this bit, said Le Bon David, and he read aloud: Philosophy! Empty thinking by ignorant conceited men who think they can digest without eating! What is she getting at?
She means male philosophers spend too much of their time going over the same old questions, and forget to enjoy life, said Madam Denis.
Oh does she? said Le Bon David huffily, and he continued reading:
As a young, Kate Winslet sort of woman, I used to write a great deal about good and evil, virtue and morality, and how we should strive to make ourselves better by paying more attention to one another. Oh, I wrote such wonderful things. I wrote novels, too, and my characters embodied my ideas. At this time also, I used to get about on a bicycle. I went on a bicycling holiday in France once, I recall, with a young man, a very young man, so young in fact that for the sake of respectability I was obliged to pretend to be his mother.....
Those were good times. Unfortunately later he found out that I used to work for the SS as a prison guard, and also that I was unable to read.......
Now that I am an older Judi Dench sort of woman, I spend my time trying to weasel my way into the lives of attractive but flawed young women like ..... well, like Kate Winslet, and bind them to me by means of blackmail. But when I am not doing this, I like to get about on a bicycle. Nothing is more conducive to the clarification of rational thought than to ride through the countryside on a beautiful summer's afternoon in a cotton print full-skirted dress, with a basket on the front. Of the bicycle, I mean. The basket being in case I feel inspired to go shopping.
Well, said the VeloDrone. It has a certain charm, but I can't help thinking she's having some sort of identity crisis.
Nonsense! said Madam Denis. It's brilliant! Well done, Iris! And well done, Belle et Bonne!
Correspondence
Of course, it was Belle et Bonne who sat down to write the letter. This is what she wrote:
Dear Iris Murdoch,
No doubt you've heard of our online magazine Velosophy, being a philosopher yourself and also a keen bicyclist. We are currently attempting to modernise, by including more articles by women. We would like to invite you to contribute something. You won't get paid, but you can write whatever you like. What do you say?
Belle et Bonne
for the Editorial Team
She showed it to Madam Denis.
That's fine, said Madam Denis, without looking at it properly.
So Belle et Bonne pressed 'send'.
A few moments later she received a reply in her inbox:
Dear Belle et Bonne,
Thanks for asking me to contribute to Velosophy. No one has asked me to write anything for absolutely ages. Can't understand why. I'll get down to it right away. Put a firecracker among the philosophers !!! Male ones !!! And their Bikes!!!!
Regards, Iris ( the Judi Dench one ). xx
Belle et Bonne was alarmed at this response. She didn't dare show it to Madam Denis.
Instead she wrote back to the Judi Dench Iris:
Dear Iris ( the Judi Dench one)
We really wanted the Kate Winslet one to write something for us. Is that possible? Don't want to seem rude or anything. Sorry xx
She received an instant reply:
Dear Belle et Bonne,
No, it isn't possible. The Kate Winslet one isn't the person you think she is. She is sex mad and not very good at philosophy at all. I'll do it. It will be fine don't worry.
Iris (the Judi Dench one) x
Has Iris replied yet? asked Madam Denis.
Not yet, said Belle et Bonne.
Dear Iris Murdoch,
No doubt you've heard of our online magazine Velosophy, being a philosopher yourself and also a keen bicyclist. We are currently attempting to modernise, by including more articles by women. We would like to invite you to contribute something. You won't get paid, but you can write whatever you like. What do you say?
Belle et Bonne
for the Editorial Team
She showed it to Madam Denis.
That's fine, said Madam Denis, without looking at it properly.
So Belle et Bonne pressed 'send'.
A few moments later she received a reply in her inbox:
Dear Belle et Bonne,
Thanks for asking me to contribute to Velosophy. No one has asked me to write anything for absolutely ages. Can't understand why. I'll get down to it right away. Put a firecracker among the philosophers !!! Male ones !!! And their Bikes!!!!
Regards, Iris ( the Judi Dench one ). xx
Belle et Bonne was alarmed at this response. She didn't dare show it to Madam Denis.
Instead she wrote back to the Judi Dench Iris:
Dear Iris ( the Judi Dench one)
We really wanted the Kate Winslet one to write something for us. Is that possible? Don't want to seem rude or anything. Sorry xx
She received an instant reply:
Dear Belle et Bonne,
No, it isn't possible. The Kate Winslet one isn't the person you think she is. She is sex mad and not very good at philosophy at all. I'll do it. It will be fine don't worry.
Iris (the Judi Dench one) x
Has Iris replied yet? asked Madam Denis.
Not yet, said Belle et Bonne.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Iris Murdoch
The four platonic friends are hard at work, compiling a list of female philosophers.
Do you know any? Belle et Bonne asked Madam Denis.
Of course. There must be hundreds, answered Madam Denis.
Name one, said Le Bon David.
I'm just about to google a list, said Madam Denis, but since you ask, just off the top of my head, I'm sure you will have heard of .....Iris Murdoch?
Oh, Iris Murdoch, said Le Bon David. I do remember her. Wasn't there a film about her, starring Kate Winslet?
Yes! said the VeloDrone. I remember it! Kate Winslet! A lovely actress, and very talented, he added.
I saw it too, said Belle et Bonne. Didn't Judi Dench play her when she was older?
Yes, it was awfully sad, said Madam Denis. Iris got dementia.
Can we get her to write for us if she's got dementia? asked Le Bon David.
We'll ask the young Iris, said Madam Denis. The Kate Winslet one. And if I remember rightly, didn't she ride a bicycle in the film?
I'm not sure, said The VeloDrone, doubtfully. She rode a bicycle in The Reader. That one where she was a tram conductor, and you discover later that she was a guard at Auschwitz.
That is irrelevant! cried Madam Denis. No wonder you people never get anything done!
Calm down, Marie Louise, said Belle et Bonne. I think she probably rode a bicycle in both films.
After all she went to Oxford, and was an Oxford don. She must have ridden a bicycle.
Right. She will be perfect, said Madam Denis. One of us must write to her immediately.
Do you know any? Belle et Bonne asked Madam Denis.
Of course. There must be hundreds, answered Madam Denis.
Name one, said Le Bon David.
I'm just about to google a list, said Madam Denis, but since you ask, just off the top of my head, I'm sure you will have heard of .....Iris Murdoch?
Oh, Iris Murdoch, said Le Bon David. I do remember her. Wasn't there a film about her, starring Kate Winslet?
Yes! said the VeloDrone. I remember it! Kate Winslet! A lovely actress, and very talented, he added.
I saw it too, said Belle et Bonne. Didn't Judi Dench play her when she was older?
Yes, it was awfully sad, said Madam Denis. Iris got dementia.
Can we get her to write for us if she's got dementia? asked Le Bon David.
We'll ask the young Iris, said Madam Denis. The Kate Winslet one. And if I remember rightly, didn't she ride a bicycle in the film?
I'm not sure, said The VeloDrone, doubtfully. She rode a bicycle in The Reader. That one where she was a tram conductor, and you discover later that she was a guard at Auschwitz.
That is irrelevant! cried Madam Denis. No wonder you people never get anything done!
Calm down, Marie Louise, said Belle et Bonne. I think she probably rode a bicycle in both films.
After all she went to Oxford, and was an Oxford don. She must have ridden a bicycle.
Right. She will be perfect, said Madam Denis. One of us must write to her immediately.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Madam Denis
The next morning, Madam Denis appeared at the door of the editors' office.
Marie Louise! cried Belle et Bonne. Come in!
You must be Madame Denise said Le Bon David, courteously. Welcome to our little office, Madame. Belle et Bonne has told us all about you.
Nonsense! replied Madam Denis. I doubt she has told you anything at all. And perhaps it is just as well, she added, looking pointedly at The VeloDrone.
Hello, Marie Louise, said The VeloDrone sheepishly. It has been a long time. Marie Louise, this is Le Bon David, David this is Marie Louise, my .... er ....niece.
And lover, said Marie Louise, loudly. Ex-lover, I should say.
Oh, ahem, I say, said Le Bon David. May I call you Marie Louise?
No, I prefer Madam Denis, said Marie Louise crisply. And certainly not Madame Denise, as you called me earlier. Madam Denis suits me. It is post-modernist, referencing the past but with an edginess more suited to today.
It's kind of masculine, said Belle et Bonne, helpfully.
It isn't meant to be, said Madam Denis. Now shall we get on with it? First we must draw up a list of female philosophers.....
Uncle David said......interrupted Belle et Bonne.
Nothing! said Le Bon David quickly. And I am not really her uncle.
Madam Denis looked at The VeloDone. The VeloDrone looked at Madam Denis.
Right, he said decisively, if this is going to work, we must put the past behind us and treat each other as platonic friends and equals. Do we all agree?
We do, said Madam Denis.
Marie Louise! cried Belle et Bonne. Come in!
You must be Madame Denise said Le Bon David, courteously. Welcome to our little office, Madame. Belle et Bonne has told us all about you.
Nonsense! replied Madam Denis. I doubt she has told you anything at all. And perhaps it is just as well, she added, looking pointedly at The VeloDrone.
Hello, Marie Louise, said The VeloDrone sheepishly. It has been a long time. Marie Louise, this is Le Bon David, David this is Marie Louise, my .... er ....niece.
And lover, said Marie Louise, loudly. Ex-lover, I should say.
Oh, ahem, I say, said Le Bon David. May I call you Marie Louise?
No, I prefer Madam Denis, said Marie Louise crisply. And certainly not Madame Denise, as you called me earlier. Madam Denis suits me. It is post-modernist, referencing the past but with an edginess more suited to today.
It's kind of masculine, said Belle et Bonne, helpfully.
It isn't meant to be, said Madam Denis. Now shall we get on with it? First we must draw up a list of female philosophers.....
Uncle David said......interrupted Belle et Bonne.
Nothing! said Le Bon David quickly. And I am not really her uncle.
Madam Denis looked at The VeloDone. The VeloDrone looked at Madam Denis.
Right, he said decisively, if this is going to work, we must put the past behind us and treat each other as platonic friends and equals. Do we all agree?
We do, said Madam Denis.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Queen of Philosophers
Belle et Bonne was bored. The VeloDrone and Le Bon David were not making use of her considerable talents. She decided to do something about it.
David, Papa, she said to them one evening, I think Velosophy has become rather dull lately. I think we ought to look at modernising.
Modernising! The Velodone looked surprised. But we are extremely modern. We publish online. We allow all sorts of nonsense in the name of philosophy. We promote bicycling. How could we be more modern?
Papa, said Belle et Bonne, I have been looking at our back copies, and do you know, they were all written by men!
The Velodrone shot a significant look at Le Bon David.
Well, my dear, said Le Bon David, not noticing the significant look, that is because all the best philosophers are men.
Uncle David! cried Belle et Bonne. You are so old fashioned!
Maybe so, said Le Bon David, but I am correct. And please, dear, don't call me Uncle David.
I will call you Uncle David, because you deserve it, said Belle et Bonne. And I shall call you Uncle David until you take back what you've just said.
Dear, dear, said Le Bon David, looking helplessly at The VeloDrone. I daresay there are some very fine women philosophers these days. It was just that in the old days, well, it wasn't the thing, for ladies...... he trailed off.
The VeloDrone smirked.
So what is it you are suggesting, my dear? he asked solicitously.
I am suggesting that we ask some women cycling philosophers to contribute to Velosophy. Imagine papa, it will be sure to at least double our circulation.
Why not, my dear, I wholeheartedly agree. After all was not my beloved friend Catherine the Great the very queen of philosophers? Although the idea of her riding a bicycle is somewhat unsustainable......
Oh good, papa, I'm so happy that you agree. And we shall be so busy, we will need some extra help. I have already asked an old acquaintance of ours to come in tomorrow and help.
Have you indeed? said The VeloDrone indulgently. And who might that be, may I ask?
It is Madam Denis, announced Belle et Bonne.
At the name of Madam Denis, The VeloDrone turned pale.
David, Papa, she said to them one evening, I think Velosophy has become rather dull lately. I think we ought to look at modernising.
Modernising! The Velodone looked surprised. But we are extremely modern. We publish online. We allow all sorts of nonsense in the name of philosophy. We promote bicycling. How could we be more modern?
Papa, said Belle et Bonne, I have been looking at our back copies, and do you know, they were all written by men!
The Velodrone shot a significant look at Le Bon David.
Well, my dear, said Le Bon David, not noticing the significant look, that is because all the best philosophers are men.
Uncle David! cried Belle et Bonne. You are so old fashioned!
Maybe so, said Le Bon David, but I am correct. And please, dear, don't call me Uncle David.
I will call you Uncle David, because you deserve it, said Belle et Bonne. And I shall call you Uncle David until you take back what you've just said.
Dear, dear, said Le Bon David, looking helplessly at The VeloDrone. I daresay there are some very fine women philosophers these days. It was just that in the old days, well, it wasn't the thing, for ladies...... he trailed off.
The VeloDrone smirked.
So what is it you are suggesting, my dear? he asked solicitously.
I am suggesting that we ask some women cycling philosophers to contribute to Velosophy. Imagine papa, it will be sure to at least double our circulation.
Why not, my dear, I wholeheartedly agree. After all was not my beloved friend Catherine the Great the very queen of philosophers? Although the idea of her riding a bicycle is somewhat unsustainable......
Oh good, papa, I'm so happy that you agree. And we shall be so busy, we will need some extra help. I have already asked an old acquaintance of ours to come in tomorrow and help.
Have you indeed? said The VeloDrone indulgently. And who might that be, may I ask?
It is Madam Denis, announced Belle et Bonne.
At the name of Madam Denis, The VeloDrone turned pale.
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