catachresis
Headphoneus Supremus
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Which--if I may be so bold as to let the schmucklichkeit builders and plumbers back into the philosophical edifice--suggests that Darwinian evolution is *merely* a biological extension of the claim, identified by Mistuh Herbert Butterfield (He dead.) in 1931, as "the Whig Interpretation of History": that history like God's Old-time Protestant Providence is anthropocentric, advancing, and perfecting. Darwin's natural selection simply takes the old Enlightenment claims that rational human nature gradually 'civilizes' (and indeed 'markets') us, and reworks it as an instrumental, utilitarian, and *scientifically* naturalized affirmation of human superiority over biological forebears and competitors. The Neanderthals should have spent less time performing Jacobean revenge tragedies and studied harder at maths.
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I resent that on Freud's behalf, and not at all because you remind me of my father. Freud's always getting a bum rap, but he was the first feller at the University of Vienna to actually listen to the "dancing" being performed impromptu by shell-shocked war vets and 'hysterical' bourgeois womyns. I recall that Catherine Clemente specified that it was the tarantella, but I suspect there was a bit of cha-cha, jitterbug, and hokey-pokey thrown in for variety's sake. 'S no surprise given that he was the only psychiatrist in his graduating class to pay any attention to old wives' tales (cf. Neil Hertz). He made that that first pivotal discovery that his own sainted mother (who, as the saying goes, had never had sex and, consequently, was confident that he was the son of god) could actually be a bit of a fishwife on occasion. Nuthin' could ever be the same after.
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Absolute claims to truth eventually provoke skepticism. Skeptical-critical refinements of jejeune claims to Truth that eventually create their own peculiarly absolutist claims to negative Truth spark nihilism. Given enough Pernod at your local brasserie and an adequate supply of tailored black garments at your local outlet of The French Connection, and nihilism creates its own antithesis to joi de vivre. Give it some nice gold-framed spectacles and tenure at UC Irvine and it may become an authentically Derridean "jouissance" of the meaningless self-referential word, which is just a "trace" sur rature and all in your mind--whatever the hell that is, whatever the hell I mean by that, whatever. . . Give it enough black eyeliner, and give it time to discover that only babies take Marilyn Manson seriously, while Scandinavian Death Metal is intense, and let it abandon Twilight for The Vintage Portable Aleister Crowley, and it may compliment your taste in engineers boots at the rave and offer to bite your neck afterwards--but only if you're very, very nice.
Originally Posted by Head_case /img/forum/go_quote.gif Popper's view of Darwinism as a non-testable scientific theory, but as a form of pseudo-philosophical and Victorian quasi-metaphysical project occupies a strange place, between non-science and speculative thought: its philosophical foundations are as creaky as the best of non-empirical and soft sciences. |
Which--if I may be so bold as to let the schmucklichkeit builders and plumbers back into the philosophical edifice--suggests that Darwinian evolution is *merely* a biological extension of the claim, identified by Mistuh Herbert Butterfield (He dead.) in 1931, as "the Whig Interpretation of History": that history like God's Old-time Protestant Providence is anthropocentric, advancing, and perfecting. Darwin's natural selection simply takes the old Enlightenment claims that rational human nature gradually 'civilizes' (and indeed 'markets') us, and reworks it as an instrumental, utilitarian, and *scientifically* naturalized affirmation of human superiority over biological forebears and competitors. The Neanderthals should have spent less time performing Jacobean revenge tragedies and studied harder at maths.
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But let's be honest Jonathan; does any of this dialogue aim towards dialogue and Truth, or is the Freudian explanation of what is going on here on these pages, sufficient?
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I resent that on Freud's behalf, and not at all because you remind me of my father. Freud's always getting a bum rap, but he was the first feller at the University of Vienna to actually listen to the "dancing" being performed impromptu by shell-shocked war vets and 'hysterical' bourgeois womyns. I recall that Catherine Clemente specified that it was the tarantella, but I suspect there was a bit of cha-cha, jitterbug, and hokey-pokey thrown in for variety's sake. 'S no surprise given that he was the only psychiatrist in his graduating class to pay any attention to old wives' tales (cf. Neil Hertz). He made that that first pivotal discovery that his own sainted mother (who, as the saying goes, had never had sex and, consequently, was confident that he was the son of god) could actually be a bit of a fishwife on occasion. Nuthin' could ever be the same after.
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The 'hermeneutic of suspicion' - one of our favourite phenomenologists' methods at decoding and unmasking what is said to us; relies on suspending the faculty of self-critical judgement: if our hearts are closed - what use will our head be in making sense of something else stated by another i.e. at cross-purposes? The hermeneutic of suspicion involves more than just a conceptual tool; it requires a realignment of one's way of seeing problems[. . . .] |
Absolute claims to truth eventually provoke skepticism. Skeptical-critical refinements of jejeune claims to Truth that eventually create their own peculiarly absolutist claims to negative Truth spark nihilism. Given enough Pernod at your local brasserie and an adequate supply of tailored black garments at your local outlet of The French Connection, and nihilism creates its own antithesis to joi de vivre. Give it some nice gold-framed spectacles and tenure at UC Irvine and it may become an authentically Derridean "jouissance" of the meaningless self-referential word, which is just a "trace" sur rature and all in your mind--whatever the hell that is, whatever the hell I mean by that, whatever. . . Give it enough black eyeliner, and give it time to discover that only babies take Marilyn Manson seriously, while Scandinavian Death Metal is intense, and let it abandon Twilight for The Vintage Portable Aleister Crowley, and it may compliment your taste in engineers boots at the rave and offer to bite your neck afterwards--but only if you're very, very nice.