Chapter 1 

Truth, whatever it may be, is not glibness, not cleverness, and not the manipulation of thought-objects to relieve insufferable pain. And in the city, down on the street level, one finds a kind of heroic pastiche that wants the truth but is not the truth.

Perhaps truth is that which can't be tricked out of itself. We live in this monstrous world of mirrors that trick all the time. And who doesn't settle into a semi-calm resolution with the tricks, adding their own style of trickery to the pile? When the accumulation of these tricks reaches a certain point they explode or are opened ever so innocently by some Pandora.

And where is philosophy in the hall of mirrors? It is the abandoned child whose parents thought weak so threw to the wolves, whose memory of the child is poignant and patronizing while the child itself is raised on the milk of wolves and finally returns to destroy those who cast him out.

When a person, even a normal person, feels as though he's been robbed of something essential in his being doesn't he feel betrayed?

David Eide
January 24, 2014