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Descartes
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre Subject: Re: Rrrreally? Date: Sun, 4 Apr 1999 23:12:40 +1000
>For what if Descartes' evil spirit tricks him into doubting?
Decartes realised in a flash of intuition that his nose had bled and stuck his tongue to the basement floor of the tavern he'd been drunk in. someone had pushed him down the stairs and he'd fetched up against a bag of weevilled flour. by some miracle he still had the bottle in his coat pocket. he dragged it out and peered at the label. it was some horrible kind of greek aniseed drink. one of the local taverners had tried to corner the market in the stuff before he found that no-one could stand the taste. he went out of business and the people looted his warehouse. bottles of this foul dark brown fluid kept turning up, as if someone was conducting an underground trade in it. he squeezed his eyes shut and blinked, trying to focus his already poor eyes on the label. it seemed to read "POIOF", but if the letters were Greek then it probably meant something like - he had no idea. he could understand Greek and he could understand French, but if he - uh - as he slid down off the hessian bag to lie on his back in the sweaty gloom of the grave-like tavern basement an immense melancholy fell upon him. perhaps words were contaminated ideas, sin-stained echoes of Satan's fall... and perhaps mathematics was free of this taint, being able to stand on its own terms. you could call them X and Y, or you could call them Jake and Elwood, he thought, but if he - uh - "Man," a voice from somewhere above half-growled with an almost alien variant of the English language, "you got to get off da pot." |
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