Random neuron firing, lame philosophy, literary pontificating, movies, sex, clothes & other femme stuff

Saturday, May 08, 2004

Pinker difficulties

Recently, one of the behavioral cycles I found my body recapitulating from time to time comprised picking up, reading fifty pages or so in, and throwing to the floor, Steven Pinker's The Blank Slate. Eventually, however, I ran up against the chapter "Politics," in the section "Hot Buttons," and the respectable "fifty pages" in the second step quickly reduced to "maybe a page." After a couple of weeks' hiatus, the cycle recommenced optimistically this morning, but the textual increment instantly shrank to one sentence:
And onto this battlefield strode an innocent E. O. Wilson.
I heard the voice of my darling dead Walter saying --in the inimitable way he had of dragging out the short "o" sound over two pronounced syllables, one a seeming octave above, the other a tone or so below, his ordinary speaking note-- "Oh, sto - op!"

So I did.
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