And as I read, and re-read, Metaphors we live by, there are worse things: Mischaracterizations of objectivity (the distinctions that Objectivity supposedly makes between "living" and "dead" metaphors, "hard" and "soft" homonyms, are invidious and fatuous); the assertion (which I almost missed) that there isn't any truth is scarcely made less absurd by the admission that there are some truths (though which these might be is left as vague as our authors' definition of "conception," "experience," and "understanding"). In a word, not just twaddle, but real, deliberate and yet hapless, dishonest twaddle. So I guess it's up to me.

Meantime, I've been reading ever more wonderful, heretofore unknown Nero Wolfe mysteries, and Hugo-award-winning science-fiction short-stories. How I love to project my mind forward the 500 or 1,000 years it will take for the realization of extra-terrestrial life and civilization to penetrate our earth-bound consciousness.