The members of Team Philosophe are feeling discouraged. During the whole of the Tour so far they have never even progressed to the middle of the peloton.
The VeloDrone: One may as well stay home and cultivate one's garden!
Le Bon David: Or edit one's magazine.
Jean Paul Sartre: That's right. You two edit a magazine. I had forgotten. What is it about again?
The VeloDrone: Cycling, and philosophy. Would you like to contribute something, when the Tour is over? I think Belle et Bonne is going to ask Simone.
Jean Paul Sartre: Belle et Bonne! That girl is a puzzle to me.
The VeloDrone: Why? She is a treasure, but I have never found her a puzzle.
Le Bon David: Oh, she can be a puzzle. She will insist on calling me her uncle.
The VeloDrone: That is entirely your own fault, David. But tell me Jean Paul, why do you find her a puzzle?
Jean Paul Sartre: She told me that she had no difficulty understanding existentialism. She said it was about how irritating life can be if we let it.
The VeloDrone: Hee hee! That's good. So it is! So is all philosophy if you think about it.
Jean Paul Sartre: I asked her what she found irritating about her own life, and do you know
what she told me?
The VeloDrone: Nothing.
Jean Paul Sartre: How did you know?
Le Bon David: He is her father.
Jean Paul Sartre: No he isn't. Anyway, if she finds nothing to irritate her in her life, how can she understand existentialism?
The VeloDrone: Do you mean to say you agree with her definition of it?
Jean Paul Sartre: No, I'm just saying .....
Le Bon David: He's got you there, Jean Paul. But let's not argue. We'll soon be in Bordeaux. Who's for a glass of red?
Showing posts with label puzzle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label puzzle. Show all posts
Friday, July 23, 2010
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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