The story is told of a man who read religiously the best books from the best public minds offering the best advice to people who aspired, as he did, to be the best.
The books told him to eliminate from his life anyone that was toxic. He proceeded to act upon this advice, and only at length began to realize that he had only ever known toxic people and was now alone.
The books told him to discard any possessions that did not bring him joy. He proceeded to act upon this advice and at length came to realize that he now owned nothing at all.
The books told him to waste no time at any task that was not in some way in furtherance of “his passion.” He proceeded to act upon this advice only to realize, once bone-idle and consumed with inertia, that in fact he had no particular passion nor any idea what such might even be.
It was at this point, or thereabouts, that it occurred to him that all of the “best” people who had written such “best” books were in fact akin to those people encountered in public parks who, being well made up and dressed in conspicuously expensive fitness gear, do yoga loudly for the eyes and ears of whomever might happen to be walking by, and who afterward say loudly to no one in particular and at the same anyone who will listen,
“Wooo! That was an amazing session! I still don’t know whether I prefer Glacéau or Fiji but I do know that my vegan, gluten-free cupcakes are going to be a huge hit at the HRC-sponsored reiki party later on!”
Beyond this point, the story diverges into a number of different variations, each equally apocryphal.
I have five posts in WordPress that were published and then unpublished again within about five minutes, aaaaaaahahahahahahaha.
Don’t you wish you could see them?
But you can’t.
That’s how life works. It’s how life works. It’s how life works when you’re like me.
They are also empirical evidence of something. Something that can’t be named. If I could name it and put it in a post, I’d have to immediately unpublish it and then it would join the list of unpublished posts.
This is how reality is twisted. No, not into a double-helix.
You are all captured. Do you feel captured? You are.
Even people like me, that aren’t captured, are captured. Blah, blah, facile stupid prose, yes, and blah.
I don’t give a shit.
Truth is truth, even if you think it’s facile or trite.
Go, go away. Forever.
FUCK YOU! AND—
Sing; song; sing; song.
Let this be the truth, in all its falsehood.
“The biggest advantage of extremism is that it makes you feel good because it provides you with enemies. Let me explain. The great thing about having enemies is that you can pretend that all the badness in the whole world is in your enemies, and all the goodness in the whole world is in YOU. Attractive, isn’t it?
So, if you have a lot of anger and resentment in you anyway and you therefore enjoy abusing people, then you can pretend that you’re only doing it because these enemies of yours are such very bad persons!
And if it wasn’t for them, you’d actually be goodnatured, and courteous, and rational all the time. So, if you want to feel good, become an extremist. You can strut around, abusing people, and telling them you could eat them for breakfast and still think of yourself as a champion of the truth. A fighter for the greater good. And not the rather sad paranoid schizoid that you really are.”
— John Cleese