Monday, September 14, 2009


Hermeneutics is not a subject we have often seen treated here on, finding, as we do, the scholiastic interpretation of texts somewhat less to our aesthetic fancy than creating new texts to entertain our friends and fans and followers and pillory our interpreters.

It is a blithe, cheerfully unexamined life that we poets lead. We are not proud of it. We would never extol the chilling depths of our ignorance as a model for emulation by curious children or adults. But, in fairness, our deficiencies and delinquencies must be acknowledged, lest the studious posture of reflection be amplified to the point of easy caricature by assuming the contracted, constipated brow of thought. We wish to make it perfectly clear that we are not thoughtful or constipated.

I hope you will understand that I am only speaking for myself here, when I suggest that we are not particularly thoughtful or constipated. A diet rich in the fruits of fancy can have that effect. That other mortals, less fortunate than I, may be afflicted with these conditions, I would not dispute. To these sad, swollen souls, I open the arms of sympathy and understanding--which, astonishingly enough, are two reflexes that seem to function quite well, quite unimpaired by my total lack of intelligence. I may even possess more benevolent impulses, for all I know.

I imagine this is more a question of how strangely my brain has been wired by experience than any coherent system of thought I adopted in college. It would probably take a careful, epistemological autopsy to find out for certain. Personally, I think I can live well enough without leaving my brain in the lunch box of some zombie philosopher, thank you very much.

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