Aren’t all philosophers arm-chair philosophers, after all?
When I was in college, I once saw my philosophy professor out jogging. It was one of the most grotesque visions of pain and strain I have ever seen.
Aren’t all philosophers arm-chair philosophers, after all?
When I was in college, I once saw my philosophy professor out jogging. It was one of the most grotesque visions of pain and strain I have ever seen.
A nod to Kierkegaard and Walker Percy: existentialist tomfoolery, political satire, literary homage, word mongering, a year-round summer reading club, Dylanesque music bits, apocalyptic marianism, poetry, fiction, meta-porn, a prisoner work-release program.
Søren Kierkegaard
Walker Percy
Bob Dylan
Literature & History
Letters from an American
Beau of the Fifth Column
This American Life
The Writer’s Almanac
San Diego Reader
The Stranger
The Inlander
Adoremus
Charlotte was Both
The Onion
From Empty Hands
Ellen Finnigan
America
Commonweal
First Things
National Review
The New Republic
All Manner of Thing
Gerasene Writers Conference
Scrutinies
DarwinCatholic
Catholic and Enjoying It
Bad Catholic
Universalis
Is My Phylactery Showing?
Quotidian Quintilian
En pocas palabras
William Wilson, Guitarist Extraordinaire
Signposts in a Strange Land
Ben Hatke
Daniel Mitsui
Dappled Things
The Fine Delight
Gene Luen Yang
Wiseblood Books
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It isn’t easy dragging this sack of bones up Mount Olympus.
One of the greatest frustrations of C.S. Lewis toward the end of his life was an inability to kneel for prayer.
My dad was a psych professor. I remember when I was eleven he took me out of school for a big father/son male bonding day (the only one I ever remember). Anyway, he bought me a PLASTIC! baseball glove. For crying out loud–PLASTIC! Mostly he would walk around the house like a veg, deep in thought. I like William Buckley’s statement that he would rather be governed by the first 2,000 people listed in the Boston phone book than by the faculty of Harvard. Often I hear someone referring to something an academic said and adding that only an intellectual could be so stupid. Invariably I agree.
What would S.K. say if he observed your professor jogging?
My comment was going to be about Socrates. I would venture to call him a curbside philosopher. Or perhaps a Poliside philosopher. Not to be confused with the stoners at Eric Hasting’s house at three a.m., vyeing to impress a girl. That’s a poolside philosopher. But the imposter makes a good comment too. Or am I the imposter?
What do they call those roman and greek couches that became chaise lounges. Certainly not chaise lounges, for that is a french word.
I think they called those chairs “codex loungetatis.”