I don’t believe in love

I have to admit, I don’t generally believe in love. I think it’s just nonsense that society and pop culture forcefully shove down our throats. But when I watch a film like Kodachrome, there’s this faint hope for something—quiet and nameless—like that moment when Zooey rests her head on Matt’s shoulder as they watch Ben’s slides of Matt’s childhood. There’s something peaceful about it. It’s none of that Hollywood-style, Technicolour romantic love. So maybe it’s not that I don’t believe in love. Maybe I just don’t believe in the version that demands centre stage instead of being something more modest and more difficult: a temporary easing of solitude, a shared rhythm, a moment where nothing needs to be proven and it feels peaceful rather than intoxicating.


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A rainy day

I like rainy days, when the gentle patter of raindrops on the leaves of the tree outside my window replaces the song of Malebolge rising from the school yard across the street at lunch break. Does that make me a curmudgeon?


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The cult classics

For a while now, I’ve been reading The Nicomachean Ethics, taking it slowly—two or three pages at a time—in the morning with a fresh mind after a full night’s sleep; and perhaps it’s my own ignorance talking, but I’ve never read such a bland and uninspiring text that I found myself glancing with a modicum of sympathy at the washing machine’s instruction manual lying on the shelf above it. It’s like with the old silent films that have become cult classics—you appreciate their importance to the development of cinematography, but you can’t resist yawning while watching them.


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The language of power

Why does man form the root of both human and woman in English? In Polish, by contrast, the words for a man, a human, and a woman—mężczyzna, człowiek, and kobieta—are three entirely separate terms. What’s more, man in English denotes not only a male individual but also a person in general and even humanity itself, depending on context. It becomes specifically male only when marked by an article. Doesn’t that reinforce patriarchy?


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Genean Ethics

But when actions are done, either from fear of greater evils, or from some honourable motive, as, for instance, if you were ordered to commit some base act by a despot who had your parents or children in his power, and they were to be saved upon your compliance or die upon your refusal, in such cases there is room for a question whether the actions are voluntary or involuntary.
Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle, translation by D. P. Chase

Reading the above quote from the Nicomachean Ethics, one might think that family is a matter of genes—or blood, as it would have been conceived in those times—since the wife is not even mentioned there, as if she were not considered worth saving, like a mere growth on the body of the family. Would it be a coincidence or something symptomatic?


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The chicken or the egg

Reading books on philosophy versus reading philosophy books: for one not at home with the latter, the former can feel like eavesdropping on a conversation already in progress, while delving into the latter without first engaging with the former is like trying to face 4’33” with nothing but the score—a classic ‘chicken or the egg’ dilemma, so to speak—and yet all one has to do is to reach for the Republic and the Socratic dialogues rather than Phenomenology of Spirit or Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus if one wishes to start with the latter, and in the case of the former, Russell’s History of Western Philosophy makes a sound starting point. But to find this out, one either needs a stroke of luck or a good mentor.


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The revelation of a dim mind

I have always believed that boredom is a symptom of the laziness of the mind, for brilliant minds are self-sufficient, as seen in the case of Richard Feynman, who remained lucid, mentally active, and undisturbed even by the absence of sensory input in John C. Lilly’s isolation tank. And although I’m far from that level of acumen myself, I’ve often quipped that I’m never bored because I share my time with a very intelligent person—myself. Besides, I tend to keep books close at hand. (And speaking of books and great minds, I’ve long found it fascinating when intellectuals claim that a particular book changed their life—only to then have a flash of insight: nothing like that has ever happened to me, so either I’m not easily impressed, or I’m simply too dim to grasp what I read.)


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Britishness under the AI microscope

‘How very British to count days or lamp posts’ might seem like such an innocent statement that no one would suspect it to be a practical joke—yet that is exactly what it was, and it was played on none other than Google’s AI. No wonder it fell for it and produced some rather bizarre cultural insights:

The idea of counting days or lamp posts, while not exclusively British, can be seen as a quirky, slightly obsessive, and perhaps endearing trait associated with British culture. This can be linked to a love of routine, attention to detail, and a certain dry humor.

Here’s why this might be considered “very British”:

Emphasis on Routine and Order:
A structured approach to life, including counting things, can be seen as a way to impose order and predictability in a potentially chaotic world.

Love of Detail:
British culture often appreciates the subtle nuances and details of everyday life, and counting things like lamp posts could be a way of engaging with these details.

Dry Humor:
A self-deprecating and understated sense of humor is also a British trait. Counting lamp posts could be seen as a form of dry, slightly absurd humor, where the activity itself is the joke.

Regional Differences:
Some areas of the UK might have more of a tradition of counting lamp posts than others, possibly influenced by local infrastructure or community practices.

Historical Context:
Historically, lamp posts were essential for navigation and safety in towns and cities, and counting them might have had a practical purpose in the past.

In essence, while not a universally accepted British custom, the idea of counting lamp posts can be seen as a humorous and slightly quirky expression of a few common British traits.


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Perpetuum mobile

I can’t remember if I ever wanted to say something in particular, if my words had any intended purpose, at least not since the very beginning, when the first verse coincided with the end of puberty and was meant to impress a girl. It did not. I wonder what she’d say now—not that it would matter, and her face has been lost to the mists of time anyway. Perhaps that’s what always drew me to what Socrates said about poets in the ‘Apology’. At least, after more than three decades, my writing—although not a perpetuum mobile—is as close to self-perpetuating as one gets.


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