a thread for mundane ironists

[b]Thornton Wilder

The highest tribute to the dead is not grief but gratitude.[/b]

You know, If they deserve it.

The knowledge that she would never be loved in return acted upon her ideas as a tide acts upon cliffs.

Analogy: you’re the cliffs, dasein’s the tide.

We all know that something is eternal. And it ain’t houses and it ain’t names, and it ain’t earth, and it ain’t even the stars . . . everybody knows in their bones that something is eternal, and that something has to do with human beings. All the greatest people ever lived have been telling us that for five thousand years and yet you’d be surprised how people are always losing hold of it. There’s something way down deep that’s eternal about every human being.

Yes, yes, I once actually believed that too.

Only it seems to me that once in your life before you die you ought to see a country where they don’t talk in English and don’t even want to.

Hell, there must be at least one, right?

Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?

Let’s all decide what that means.

Good-by, Good-by, world. Good-by, Grover’s Corners…Mama and Papa. Good-by to clocks ticking and Mama’s sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new-ironed dresses and hot baths and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you.

How deep [or shallow] is this?

[b]Robert Penn Warren

Historical sense and poetic sense should not, in the end, be contradictory, for if poetry is the little myth we make, history is the big myth we live, and in our living, constantly remake.[/b]

I can go along with that.

For the truth is a terrible thing. You dabble your foot in it and it is nothing. But you walk a little farther and you feel it pull you like an undertow or a whirlpool. First there is the slow pull so steady and gradual you scarcely notice it, then the acceleration, then the dizzy whirl and plunge into darkness. For there is a blackness of truth, too. They say it is a terrible thing to fall into the Grace of God. I am prepared to believe that.

Down here of course God being the least of it.

…by the time we understand the pattern we are in, the definition we are making for ourselves, it’s too late to break out of the box. We can only live in terms of the definition, like the prisoner in the cage in which he cannot lie or stand or sit, hung up in justice to be viewed by the populace. Yet the definition we have made of ourselves is ourselves. To break out of it, we must make a new self. But how can the self make a new self when the selfness which it is, is the only substance from which the new self can be made?

I know, I know: Not you.

Storytelling and copulation are the two chief forms of amusement in the South. They’re inexpensive and easy to procure.

Not only that, but, down there, they are closer to God.

For whatever you live is life.

After all, what else could it be?

If you want him to do it, you’ve got to change the picture of the world inside his head.

Of course that works the same for us too.

[b]Karl Popper

A rationalist, as I use the word, is a man who attempts to reach decisions by argument and perhaps, in certain cases, by compromise, rather than by violence. He is a man who would rather be unsuccessful in convincing another man by argument than successful in crushing him by force, by intimidation and threats, or even by persuasive propaganda.[/b]

Yeah, they’re still around.

We do not choose political freedom because it promises us this or that. We choose it because it makes possible the only dignified form of human coexistence, the only form in which we can be fully responsible for ourselves. Whether we realize its possibilities depends on all kinds of things — and above all on ourselves.

Unless of course might really does make right.

In so far as a scientific statement speaks about reality, it must be falsifiable: and in so far as it is not falsifiable, it does not speak about reality.

So, scientifically, does God exist or not?

Our aim as scientists is objective truth; more truth, more interesting truth, more intelligible truth. We cannot reasonably aim at certainty. Once we realize that human knowledge is fallible, we realize also that we can never be completely certain that we have not made a mistake.

Uh, oh…that can’t be good.
Right?

There is an almost universal tendency, perhaps an inborn tendency, to suspect the good faith of a man who holds opinions that differ from our own opinions. … It obviously endangers the freedom and the objectivity of our discussion if we attack a person instead of attacking an opinion or, more precisely, a theory.

That’s the part here where the “retard” becomes an “asshole”.

The aim of argument, or of discussion, should not be victory but progress.

In other words, when they finally agree with us. If not the other way around.

[b]tiny nietzsche

I am going to curl up with a toaster in a hot bath.[/b]

Who here would like to plug it in?

doktor: when did you quit taking drugs?
me: what time is it?

Doktor: when will you start taking them again?

There are two kinds of people in the world. I don’t know who they are.

Or three kinds if you count those who don’t care.

I’m in an open relationship with myself.

And even that’s not working.

cop: do you know how fast you were going?
me: man is condemned to be free
cop: not you, pal

Chance are [being a cop] he never read Being and Nothingness. Not from cover to cover.

All I’m saying is if it all goes south, I will eat human flesh.

In other words, not just pussy.

[b]Charles Darwin

We will now discuss in a little more detail the Struggle for Existence.[/b]

Let’s file this one under, “uh, oh”.

Nevertheless so profound is our ignorance, and so high our presumption, that we marvel when we hear of the extinction of an organic being; and as we do not see the cause, we invoke cataclysms to desolate the world, or invent laws on the duration of the forms of life!

Either that or just shrug and move on.

Natural Selection almost inevitably causes much Extinction of the less improved forms of life and induces what I have called Divergence of Character.

Well, he had to call it something, right?

Nothing is easier than to admit in words the truth of the universal struggle for life, or more difficult - at least I have found it so - than constantly to bear this conclusion in mind…We behold the face of nature bright with gladness…We do not see, or we forget, that the birds which are idly singing round us mostly live on insects and seeds, and are thus constantly destroying life.

It’s a fucking butcher shop, isn’t it?
I know, let’s ask God.

But Natural Selection, as we shall hereafter see, is a power incessantly ready for action, and is immeasurably superior to man’s feeble efforts, as the works of Nature are to those of Art.

Maybe, but nowadays we give it a fright or two.

A fair result can be obtained only by fully stating and balancing the facts and arguments on both sides of each question.

For example, our fair result.

[b]P.G. Wodehouse

I suppose half the time Shakespeare just shoved down anything that came into his head.[/b]

You know, like the rest of us. Only better.

It’s a funny thing about looking for things. If you hunt for a needle in a haystack you don’t find it. If you don’t give a darn whether you ever see the needle or not it runs into you the first time you lean against the stack.

In other words, funny as in not funny at all.

Always get to the dialogue as soon as possible. I always feel the thing to go for is speed. Nothing puts the reader off more than a big slab of prose at the start.

Let’s make that the rule here too.

You can’t be a successful Dictator and design women’s underclothing.

Let alone wear them.

I mean, if you’re asking a fellow to come out of a room so that you can dismember him with a carving knife, it’s absurd to tack a ‘sir’ on to every sentence. The two things don’t go together.

Unless, of course, you’re just being ironic.

…it has been well said that it is precisely these moments when we are feeling that ours is the world and everything that’s in it that Fate selects for sneaking up on us with the rock in the stocking.

Unless perhaps it’s God.

[b]Elena Epaneshnik

The world is simple. We wouldn’t understand.[/b]

Obviously: It can’t get much simpler than that.

There’s nothing darker than the light at the end of the tunnel.

And coming right at you.

Caution! Future ahead.

Great, just what we need: Yet another reference to Trump.

You can have it and miss it too.

Subconsciously say.

Silence has its own grammar.

Unspeakably as it were.

In the beginning there was Beauty. Then we tried to define it.

Hey, don’t look at me.

[b]Alexandre Dumas

Order is the key to all problems.[/b]

In other words, that’s what they all say. And that’s the problem.

The wretched and the miserable should turn to their Savior first, yet they do not hope in Him until all other hope is exhausted.

That seems to be how it all too often works alright.

It is the infirmity of our nature always to believe ourselves much more unhappy than those who groan by our sides!

I know: In your case it’s actually true.

Pure love and suspicion cannot dwell together: at the door where the latter enters, the former makes its exit.

On the other hand, only a fool wouldn’t be suspicious of pure love.

If it is ones lot to be cast among fools, one must learn foolishness.

So, how am I doing?

If you wish to discover the guilty person, first find out to whom the crime might be useful.

You know, if you’re a pragmatist.

[b]Shirley Jackson

I would have liked to come into the grocery some morning and see them all, even the Elberts and the children, lying there crying with the pain of dying. I would help myself to groceries, I thought, stepping over their bodies, taking whatever I fancied from the shelves, and go home, with perhaps a kick for Mrs.Donell while she lay there. I was never sorry when I had thoughts like this; I only wished they would come true.[/b]

They do always say that honesty is the best policy.

No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality…

On the other hand, reality always has been, always is and always will be just what it it. Absolutely or not.

…you’d think my own face would know me…

On the other hand, he thought, why would it want to?

Upstairs Margaret said abruptly, I suppose it starts to happen first in the suburbs, and when Brad said, What starts to happen? she said hysterically, People starting to come apart.

Margaret has seen too many movies.

Fear and guilt are sisters…

If not identical twins.

I cannot find any patience for those people who believe that you start writing when you sit down at your desk and pick up your pen and finish writing when you put down your pen again; a writer is always writing, seeing everything through a thin mist of words, fitting swift little descriptions to everything he sees, always noticing. Just as I believe that a painter cannot sit down to his morning coffee without noticing what color it is, so a writer cannot see an odd little gesture without putting a verbal description to it, and ought never to let a moment go by undescribed.

Neurotically as it were. Or, in any event, as it certainly can be.

[b]so sad today

it’s going to get worse before it gets worse[/b]

That’s still better than I thought.

I love your opinion about bullshit

Almost as much as you love mine.

me: fuck consumerism
me: i need so much new shit

Nowadays of course that’s not even a contradiction in terms.

no, i can’t just “get off the internet”

Or [for some]: no, I can’t just “stop doing heroin”.

a panic attack inside a panic attack

And then that all the way down.

masturbating and crying and eating

Though occasionally she’ll change the order.

[b]Stieg Larsson

What she had realized was that love was that moment when your heart was about to burst.[/b]

Of course I never even came close then.

Everyone has secrets. It’s just a matter of finding out what they are.

That and when to leave them alone.

She went around with the attitude that she would rather be beaten to death than take any shit.

You know, if that’s an option for you.

I’ve had many enemies over the years. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s never engage in a fight you’re sure to lose. On the other hand, never let anyone who has insulted you get away with it. Bide your time and strike back when you’re in a position of strength—even if you no longer need to strike back.

Of course not all of us are Lizbeths.

Armageddon was yesterday, today we have a serious problem.

In other words, it’s personal.

Normally seven minutes of another person’s company was enough to give her a headache so she set things up to live as a recluse. She was perfectly content as long as people left her in peace. Unfortunately society was not very smart or understanding.

And, more to the point, they far, far, far outnumber you.

[b]Stephen Fry

If you spend your life on a moral hill-top, you see nothing but the mud below. If, like me, you live in the mud itself, you get a damned good view of clear blue sky and clean green hills above. There’s none so evil-minded as those with a moral mission, and none so pure in heart as the depraved.[/b]

In other words, in a world of words, no mud.

Either a municipal bog is a private place or it isn’t. If it is a private place in which to shit, how is it not a private place in which to fellate?

Actually, this had never once occured to me.

When the evening was over Alistair Cooke shook my hand goodbye and held it firmly, saying, This hand you are shaking once shook the hand of Bertrand Russell.’
Wow! I said, duly impressed.
No, No, said Cooke, It goes further than that. Bertrand Russell knew Robert Browning. Bertrand Russell’s aunt danced with Napoleon. That’s how close we all are to history. Just a few handshakes away. Never forget that.

I once shook the hand of Nancy Kulp.

You can’t just say there is a god because the world is beautiful. You have to account for bone cancer in children.

Hint: It rhymes with “mysterious ways”.

It was a Tuesday in February. Many of my life’s most awful moments have taken place on Tuesdays. And what is February if not the Tuesday of the year?

I suspect we all have our own rendition of this.

Anger fed him and clothed him and he owed it much.

Either anger or rage.

[b]Carson McCullers

Why was it that in cases of real love the one who is left does not more often follow the beloved by suicide? Only because the living must bury the dead? Because of the measured rites that must be fulfilled after a death? Because it is as though the one who is left steps for a time upon a stage and each second swells to an unlimited amount of time and he is watched by many eyes? Because there is a function he must carry out? Or perhaps, when there is love, the widowed must stay for the resurrection of the beloved - so that the one who has gone is not really dead, but grows and is created for second time in the soul of the living.[/b]

Pick one:
1] Yes
2] No
3] Maybe
4] All of the above

You don’t know what it is to store up a lot of details and then come upon something real.

But I do know.
I think.

He had a few eccentricities himself and was tolerant of the peculiarities of others; indeed, he rather relished the ridiculous.

My kind of nut.

Nothing had really changed…The people dreamed and fought and slept as much as ever. And by habit they shortened their thoughts so that they would not wander out into the darkness beyond tomorrow.

In that case, nothing really had changed.

The mutual distrust between the men who were just awakened and those who were ending a long night gave everyone a feeling of estrangement.

Still, some earned it more than others. Or so it seemed to me.

A person can’t pick up they children and just squeeze them to which-a-way they wants them to be.

True, but see if that stops most from trying.

[b]Liane Moriarty

It was like she was thinking, How far can I go with this? How much more can I fit in my life without losing control?[/b]

Trust me: Don’t fuck this up.

…women are like the Olympic athletes of grudges.

Alhough, admittedly, it doesn’t often lead to, you know, murder.

She was busy thinking about the concept of forgiveness. It was such a lovely, generous idea when it wasn’t linked to something awful that needed forgiving.

Concepts. And, indeed, up in the clouds you gotta love them.

First kisses didn’t necessarily require darkness and alcohol, they could happen in the open air, with the sun warm on your face and everything around you honest and real and true.

First fucks too.

She didn’t understand a damned thing about life except that it was arbitrary and cruel, and some people got away with murder while others made one tiny, careless mistake and paid a terrible price.

Sounds like an “essentially absurd and meaningless world” to me. Either that or God has a lot of explaining to do.

How strange it all was. Wouldn’t it be a lot less messy if everyone just stayed with the people they married in the first place?

Either that or all the messier still.

[b]Philosophy Tweets

“I am not an Athenian or a Greek, but a citizen of the world.” Diogenes[/b]

That was then, but this is now.

“Love is the revelation of the other person’s freedom.” Octavio Paz

That was then, but this is now.

“It is only thanks to God that I’m an atheist” Gianni Vattimo

Well, one of them.

“Not how the world is, but that it is, is the mystery.” Ludwig Wittgenstein

Right, like it can’t be both.

“Hell isn’t other people. Hell is yourself.” Ludwig Wittgenstein

The man was a fucking genius!

“The world of the happy is quite different from that of the unhappy.” Ludwig Wittgenstein

And [one suspects] not just philosophically.

[b]Nikos Kazantzakis

Free yourself from one passion to be dominated by another and nobler one. But is not that, too, a form of slavery? To sacrifice oneself to an idea, to a race, to God? Or does it mean that the higher the model the longer the longer the tether of our slavery?[/b]

The tethered mind. But isn’t that more or less the whole point, Mr. Objectivist?

When everyone drowns and I’m the only one to escape, God is protecting me. When everyone else is saved and I’m the only one to drown, God is protecting me then too.

Yep, that sounds like God alright.

When shall I at last retire into solitude alone, without companions, without joy and without sorrow, with only the sacred certainty that all is a dream? When, in my rags—without desires—shall I retire contented into the mountains? When, seeing that my body is merely sickness and crime, age and death, shall I—free, fearless, and blissful—retire to the forest? When? When, oh when?

My guess: When it actually becomes an option.

What a strange machine man is! You fill him with bread, wine, fish, and radishes, and out comes sighs, laughter, and dreams.

Well, and shit of course.

I say one thing, you write another, and those who read you understand still something else! I say: cross, death, kingdom of heaven, God…and what do you understand? Each of you attaches his own suffering, interests and desires to each of these sacred words, and my words disappear, my soul is lost.

Yes, yes I agree: I might well have said that myself.

Let people be, boss; don’t open their eyes. And supposing you did, what’d they see? Their misery! Leave their eyes closed, boss, and let them go on dreaming!

Me? Not a chance.

[b]Jeanette Winterson

Misery is a no U-turns, no stopping road. Travel down it pushed by those behind, tripped by those in front. Travel down it at furious speed though the days are mummified in lead. It happens so fast once you get started, there’s no anchor from the real world to slow you down, nothing to hold on to. Misery pulls away the brackets of life leaving you to free fall. Whatever your private hell, you’ll find millions like it in Misery. This is the town where everyone’s nightmares come true.[/b]

Of course not all miseries are created equal.

This hole in my heart is in the shape of you. No one else can fit it. Why would I want them to?

I cannot even imagine it. For better or worse as it were.

I realized something important: whatever is on the outside can be taken away at any time. Only what is inside you is safe.

Right?

We’re here, there, not here, not there, swirling like specks of dust, claiming for ourselves the rights of the universe. Being important, being nothing, being caught in lives of our own making that we never wanted. Breaking out, trying again, wondering why the past comes with us, wondering how to talk about the past at all.

And that’s before we get to the actual context.

I return to problems i can’t solve, not because i am an idiot, but because the real problems can’t be solved.

Out of habit if nothing else.

The key to happiness, she said, is tolerance of those who do not do as you do.
What if those who do not do as you do are gunning you down? I said.
Alaska frowned. Guns are intolerant. Guns are a failure of communication.

I know: Let’s melt them all down into plowshares.

[b]Philosophy Tweets

“I act with complete certainty. But this certainty is my own.” Ludwig Wittgenstein[/b]

And, if you know what’s good for you, it will be your complete certainty too. Right, Mr. Objectiivist?

“The world is full of abandoned meanings.” Don DeLillo

In the thousands now at least.

“There is no perfection, only life.” Milán Kundera.

Including death of course.

“Once life is finished it acquires a sense; up to that point it hasn’t got one; its sense is suspended and therefore ambiguous.” Pier Paolo Pasolini

“I” in other words.

“The revolution is now just a sentiment.” Pier Paolo Pasolini

…and a mawkish sentiment for some.

“In the past, people were born royal. Nowadays, royalty comes from what you do.” Gianni Versace

And, nowadays, that can be practically anything.

[b]Ernest Hemingway

I try not to borrow, first you borrow then you beg.[/b]

Well, to the best of my knowledge, I have borrowed but never begged.
So far.

Remember everything is right until it’s wrong. You’ll know when it’s wrong.

On the other hand, it might not even occur to you.

What difference does it make if you live in a picturesque little outhouse surrounded by 300 feeble minded goats and your faithful dog? The question is: Can you write?

Yes, I can. But that’s not really the question is it?

You’ll ache. And you’re going to love it. It will crush you. And you’re still going to love all of it. Doesn’t it sound lovely beyond belief?

Yes. And all the more so if it were actually true.

Perhaps I should not have been a fisherman, he thought. But that was the thing that I was born for.

The thing that I was born for hasn’t even been invented yet. Or discovered.

I don’t want to be your friend, baby. I am your friend.

Not that we can actually tell them apart of course.

[b]Bernard Malamud

If the stories come, you get them written, you’re on the right track. Eventually everyone learns his or her own best way. The real mystery to crack is you.[/b]

Let’s just say that, unlike most here, I’m still working on it.

A man is an island in the only sense that matters, not an easy way to be. We live in mystery, a cosmos of separate lonely bodies, men, insects, stars. It is all loneliness and men know it best.

True, if you count women too.

When I don’t feel hurt, I hope they bury me.

Either that or, for some, hurting others.

Would you say you have a “philosophy” of your own? If so what is it?
If I have it’s all skin and bones…If I have any philosophy…it’s that life could be better than it is.

Let’s file this one under, “don’t get me started”.

We’re persecuted in the most civilized languages.

And then it’s off again to the voting booth.

Nobody lived in Eden anymore.

Especially not literally.