Le Bon David writes well, says Pliny the Elder admiringly. I liked his first edition. He combines a skill in philosophical argument with a pleasing facility of description which you would do well to emulate.
Thanks, Pliny, I try, but I'll never be as good as him. I liked the way he drew our attention to the little white fingernail shells, and the crunching sounds they made when the bicycle went over them.
Yes, and the repetition of the image in the description of the foam, that was masterful.
It was. Do you know the sort of shells he was referring to, by the way?
I believe I do. The bivalved molluscs known as Pipi. They remind me of fingernails too. Which reminds me to ask, are you feeling poorly this morning? I see you have been wearing a big black scarf wound twice around your neck indoors. And sitting with a blue polar fleece decorated with dolphins folded double and tucked around your middle. That is not like you.
Well spotted, Pliny. Yes I have the beginnings of a sore throat and I'm trying to ward it off by keeping warm. But why did fingernails remind you to ask me that?
Because, says Pliny, I am reminded of a cure which magicians used to say would never fail.
What is it?
They recommend the parings of fingernails be thrown at the entrance of ant holes, and that the first ant to come out and try to draw one into the hole should be captured and attached to the neck of the patient. They say the patient will then experience a speedy cure.
Showing posts with label fingernail shells. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fingernail shells. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Velosophy
Welcome to the first edition of Velosophy. I am David Hume, Le Bon David, as the French are pleased to call me. In this magazine my friend Voltaire and I intend to explore some of the fascinating philosophical issues that arise when a man rides a bicycle. I shall go first.
Here is a man, riding his bicycle along a beach. Or let us say, there is such a man. For now all there is to prove that there is a man riding his bicycle along a beach are the tracks that his tyres make in the sand.
And here is the sun. But he may not look at the sun. All that the man has to prove there is a sun in the sky is a shining path upon the sea, all aglitter, and the miniscule shadows of the tracks of his tyres in the sand.
And now the man is thinking of a pretty puzzle. What are the colours of the sea? He may only describe the colours in terms of the impressions that they make upon his senses. And what if he has never seen anything the colour of the colours that he sees make up the colours of the sea? He must do his best. Let us listen to his thoughts:
(But we cannot listen to his thoughts. All we have are the tracks of his bicycle tyres in the sand, and a shining path of glittering light leading from our eyes across the water to a point on the horizon that is directly below the position where we imagine that the sun he may not look at is in the sky.)
We must imagine his thoughts. We must also imagine that he is riding south, with the sun on his shoulder, if we wish him to come up with better colour images than shiny, and grey. No, he must be riding south, and look! he must be crunching these tiny white fingernail shells as he goes, crunch crackle crunch. He looks at the sea, the thick sensuous roll of foam like boiling sugar. It spreads and forms a lacy bridal train that dissolves into flecks of disappointed bubbles.
The wet sand is blue, the shallows like the juice of lemons. The water deepens fast, becoming plum. Farther out, it looks a virulent pondweed green. White fingernails of foam rise and run. Beyond the green, it's inky blacky blue.
But with what degree of certainty can he claim this to be true?
*
Next week my good friend Voltaire will venture to amuse you in his new persona as The VeloDrone. Until then, happy cycling!
Here is a man, riding his bicycle along a beach. Or let us say, there is such a man. For now all there is to prove that there is a man riding his bicycle along a beach are the tracks that his tyres make in the sand.
And here is the sun. But he may not look at the sun. All that the man has to prove there is a sun in the sky is a shining path upon the sea, all aglitter, and the miniscule shadows of the tracks of his tyres in the sand.
And now the man is thinking of a pretty puzzle. What are the colours of the sea? He may only describe the colours in terms of the impressions that they make upon his senses. And what if he has never seen anything the colour of the colours that he sees make up the colours of the sea? He must do his best. Let us listen to his thoughts:
(But we cannot listen to his thoughts. All we have are the tracks of his bicycle tyres in the sand, and a shining path of glittering light leading from our eyes across the water to a point on the horizon that is directly below the position where we imagine that the sun he may not look at is in the sky.)
We must imagine his thoughts. We must also imagine that he is riding south, with the sun on his shoulder, if we wish him to come up with better colour images than shiny, and grey. No, he must be riding south, and look! he must be crunching these tiny white fingernail shells as he goes, crunch crackle crunch. He looks at the sea, the thick sensuous roll of foam like boiling sugar. It spreads and forms a lacy bridal train that dissolves into flecks of disappointed bubbles.
The wet sand is blue, the shallows like the juice of lemons. The water deepens fast, becoming plum. Farther out, it looks a virulent pondweed green. White fingernails of foam rise and run. Beyond the green, it's inky blacky blue.
But with what degree of certainty can he claim this to be true?
*
Next week my good friend Voltaire will venture to amuse you in his new persona as The VeloDrone. Until then, happy cycling!
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