The Bitter Pill

Or: how to tell if you are a cynic.

Each day, faced with a cascade of decisions, every one in itself a tiny course correction on our philosophical path, we choose between A or B, and in so doing re-affirm our view of the universe. Some of these choices seem weighty and are, in as much, weighed carefully. Others are so miniscule as to be invisible, the mechanics of their resolutions seeming involuntary. It’s the totality which frame you as a pessimist, an absurdist, an elitist, an idealist, a romatic, or what have you. I’d like to focus on one of these seemingly miniscule choices today…

05.12. filed under: !. ideas. lies. observations.


That was brutal. Why aren’t you writing for the New Yorker?

posted on 05.12 at 09:44 PM.


The New Yorker is for pussies! That’s why! Heh. Just kidding.

Was wondering when you’d resurface! Will drop you a line, by back channels, post haste.

posted on 05.13 at 11:15 AMjmorrison


As with any art, that of the cooking show has its hacks and its virtuosi, and, as with any fiction, it must rely, in part, on sustaining a willing suspension of disbelief. Presented with a virtuoso TV chef skilfully combining choice ingedients, one might argue that a failure to respond to the tasting moment indicates a lack of imaginative sympathy on the part of the viewer. One can, I think, derive legitimate satisfaction from even faked ‘orgasmic chewing,’ without losing sight of the artifice behind it. Diogenes, the original cynic, is said to have been ‘an austere ascetic, his clothing of the coarsest, his food the plainest, and his bed the bare ground.’

posted on 05.14 at 03:08 AMmisteraitch

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