Brilliant realizations still sparkle at corners. Lazy writing, they call it. Leisurely to a fault. One addenda after another.
I say, i am not a bad man. I have seen and known bad men and i am not one of them. I just like to see things through my own eyes, do things at my own pace and in my own way, that's all. I like to think my own thoughts out fully, even if the results are despair or madness. You can travel through such darkness and out onto the other side. For me this dialectic trajectory is extremely common, almost omnipresent. That's why what i am writing about is hope. What is conceived and expressed spontaneously and from centre is most authentic and worthy to be expressed. I fall back upon the old myths of integrity and authenticity unashamedly, i have no postmodern embarassment about these things. J'accuse the phil. department finally of intellectual fraud, of not believing what they say. J'accuse the postmodernists of imbalance, nihilism but not of the romantic and worthy sort, of circular reasoning, and of inhumanity. How dare anyone announce the grand meta-narratives as dead. Question their orthodoxies by all means, blow raspberries at them, decry and throw them down. But be aware that they are human products, and as such still have an appeal to the human hand, head and heart.