Dearest Jud,
Unsurprisingly predictable (which is not to say not endearing) until
the your most interesting last paragraph which I can't wait to get
to. The rest misses the same point you're always missing--that is,
the be all and end all of the discourse on this list (which , by the
way is the only reason why the some of us of whom you
speak write for it) is UNDERSTANDING THE QUESTION.
I'm not arguing a case, trying to prove anything,
I'm trying to clarify the question by asking it in a different way.
This activity cannot possibly solve any problems in science, even
philosophy, and definitely not in my own life. It's just talk,
Judsy. Nothing but talk. That's the only reason we let you in.
You're a good talker. The fact that much of what you say is off the
point is beside the point.
But now as to that last--well whatever its you were trying to do.
Speaking only for myself, Jud,
not only is there something missing in the other areas of my life, the other areas of my life themselves
are missing. But I really stopped looking for them. I know we're
somewhat the same age Judsy, but I think I'm ahead of you on this.
So the only reason I join any relationship even for a moment, is
because of what it offers or appears it will offer in that moment
and perhaps the next. I was on the bike trail this morning and
coming the other way ( this seeing of one another during such a pass
can last a relational lifetime) was a rather plump, rider attired to
the nines in colorful biking tights , with a $200 helmet perched on
his mostly bald head.
Our eyes met, and he started the smiling. By time we got to the
"hi," our smiles had reached the eyes and our hi's reflected the full
warmth of it.
The list might not offer moments of this intensity, but for me its
satisfactions are in the same dimension
of possibility, namely philosophy.
Stay off the road,
Allen
Jud:
Dear Compo,
I too am a cyclist and I know that Rene is also. It would be nice if the
three of us did a twilight ride down the Feldweg together [before we pop our
clogs,] like the characters in "The Last of the Summer Wine" [a lyrical
Northern Britain based soap about some delightful old men and their capers.]
We could rendezvous by the court-garden gate to Ehnried just before dusk,
and after a smile, a passing around of the hip-flask and a shaking of hands set
forth towards St Martin's Church to listen to the bells and the whisper in
the grass of Martin's shade.
We throw our legs over the crossbar and push off St Martins bound. After
passing over the last hill its narrow ribbon leads through an even slope till it
reaches the town wall. Dimly it shines in the starlight. Behind the castle
soars the tower of St. Martin's Church. Once there we can loll on the greensward and listen to Heidegger's ghostly voice and he retraces his nightly walk
and revisits the beloved scenes of his youth:
"Slowly, almost hesitatingly, eleven strokes of the hour fade away in the
night. The old bell, on whose ropes boys' hands often were rubbed hot, trembles
under the striking of the hour hammer, whose dark-droll face no one forgets.
The silence becomes, with the last stroke, more silent. It reaches those who
were sacrificed before time through two world wars. The Simple has become
yet simpler. The Ever-Same appears strange and releases. The message of the
Fieldpath is now quite clear. Is the soul speaking? Is the world speaking? Is
God speaking? Everything speaks the renunciation unto the Same. The
renunciation does not take. The renunciation gives. It gives the inexhaustible power of
the Simple. The message makes us feel at home in a long Origin"
After the sound has died away we may have a moment of quiet reflection and
perhaps another slug at the hipflask. Then I will read to you from my German
Hymnbook thus:
"Die Herrligkeit der Erden Muss Rauch und Asche werden, Kein Fels, ken Erz kan stehn: Dies was uns kan ergetzen, Was wir fur ewig schatzen, Wird als ein lichter Traum vergehn.
[O, ye who praise earth's splendours all is but smoke and cinders, No rock,
no brass shall stay: Be ye not too confiding. What so ye deem abiding, will
as a vision pass away.]
Wir rechnen Jahr auff Jahre, Indessen wird die Bahre Uns fur die Thur
gebracht: Drauff mussen wir von hinnen, Und eh' wir uns besinnen, Der Erden sagen
gute Nacht."
[Year after year we reckon, Whilst death doth grimly beckon, and summon us
away, to far-off realms us leading, our questions nowise heeding,
Good-night to earth he bids us say.]
[Apologies to Andreus Gryphius, after who my dear dead child was named.]
Afterwards there would be a pointing of our wheels in different directions
as we cry: "Auf Wiedersehen und es waren gut, Sie zu treffen, und ein langes
Leben zu haben!" and wend our own ways along other pathways towards the
inevitable ownness of our deaths - but the meeting would have been fitting - and
it would have been Heidegger who had unwittingly been the catalyst - and for
that at least I would thank him.
Enjoy your rides - but watch the guy with the 200-dollar helmet - his smile
could be hebephrenical. ;-)
Best wishes,
Jud.
Dear Judsy,
That I, or actually and more importantly, what I wrote, could move you to such
sweet lyricism, almost completely absent the usual analytic rancor (Is there any other kind?),
even bringing along some putative Black Forest imagery, with which the master himself would
not feel uncomfortable, in turn moved me to a moment. . . well, let's just say to a
moment. Perhaps not quite on a par with the fat biker's smile, but after all, the relationships
we build on this list are, for the most part, without visual/bodily accompaniment ( not that I would want
it any other way) which helps us maintain at last a semblance of philosophical decorum.
Today we celebrate yet another American capitalistic invention called "Father's Day." This, of course,
is an afterthought to Mother's Day, even as fathers themselves are an afterthought to mothers. This is all by way of excusing myself to go and meet my youngest son in order that he might have the opportunity
to somehow fete me.
Hasta el campo muchacho!
Allen
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