So couple of nights ago, trundling home from the supermarket, carrying as much as I possibly could in two large shopping bags,

and having to stop and rest every block or so, I halted at my last resting place, the bus stop just down the street from here, and lo!--lying there next to me was a biggish, fresh, unsullied copy of the English version of Jean Hyppolite's Genesis and Structure of Hegel's Phenomenology of Spirit.  I looked around to see if there were anyone to whom it might belong, and seeing no one, after glancing through the first several pages, I put it on top of my less heavy shopping bag and trundled it on home with me.

Immediately I had put the groceries away, I got online and looked up two major articles on phenomenology.  Ah, yes--I had forgot--(transcendental) Kant, of course, and (mad, wife-murdering) Husserl, and (Nazi, existence-predicating) Heidegger, and William (blunt-fingered pragmatist) James, and (fragile, green-lobster-haunted) Sartre, and a compatriot of the latter (I think) with a hyphenated, French-sounding name of whom I have never in my life heard.  Phenomenology, i.e., how the universe reveals (shows) itself to us, or the act (or state) of perception or cognition which precedes ontology or epistemology.  Ah yes.

And utter silly-ass twaddle it is--every word, line, jot and tittle of it.  Ordinarily, if I had come into possession of such pretentious bullshit by ordinary means, I would simply drop it in the garbage, but I owe it to an absent-minded or neglectful somebody to try to return this odious verbal diarrhea to him unharmed and in as good a condition as I found it.  I shall therefore tape a simple, visible found notice to the bus stop, with my phone number.