The Answer is a Question
I think I’ve made a discovery so significant, it penetrates to the heart of so many other human pursuits. Yes, I do mean “human”, in that it applies to all of us. It’s not so narrow as to be merely a cultural thing, or a modern thing. But I think it lies beneath almost everything suggested by the question “what is it to be human?”
In a sense, this thought, which is actually a question, could, I think, be said to lurk in the depths of our art, our philosophy, our scientific endeavors, music, poetry, literature, religious thought, even war and politics. The ridiculous thing is, it is a question without answer; an intractable question; a self-referential, maddening gyre of a question; an infernal, stubborn, infinite recursion.
The question that plagues us, has plagued us since thoughts began to form in our proto-cognitive prehistory, is a simple one. At least grammatically speaking… Yet it seems to be diamond-like kernel — perhaps galaxy-pinning black hole — of every human endeavor (with the possible exclusion of cuisine). It is …
Why won’t my wife sleep with me?
