In which The Gay Recluse becomes increasingly obsessed with the George Washington Bridge.

It’s often said that as you get older, time moves faster.

This is undoubtedly true, except for when it moves more slowly than it once did.

I’m reading a book by Richard Rorty,* who — unlike Plato/Kant/Schopenhauer/Freud/Jung — argues that there is no greater truth to be discovered, either inside of us or beyond us, i.e., there is no “will” or “unconscious.”

Rorty is not exactly “tween-lit” — I will probs have to read it twice to really digest — and I’m only about halfway done, so I could be getting it entirely wrong!

There is only the changing/evolving language we use to describe our circumstances. As such, two observations — seemingly contradictory — could both be entirely valid.

In effect, there is only the arrangement of books and art — the exposure of the different threads that tie things together — which he calls literary criticizzzzzzzm.

What’s clear is that he’s not an artist, but a thinker.

There is a line in the photograph that clearly divides it; one half is bathed in brilliant sunlight and the other is frozen in the shadow.

Recently — in part because of reading Rorty — I have begun to have doubts about which side I would prefer to be found.