Interesting as a metaphor. A Buddhist might say nothing exists in and of itself. The table I'm sitting at is only a table by virtue of its function. It consists of many things, cellulose from the tree, the forester, the woodcutter, the manufacturer, painter, polisher, the transporter, retailer and so on. We do not ourselves 'exist' as such, but only in relation to other people and things, stretching out in their millions in space and time. Everything is 'conditioned' by everything else. Nothing is permanent. All is change, ephemeral, momentary. Remove the 'conditioning' as Buddhists call it, and you are left with 'pure' consciousness. Which is nothing. Poor old Kafka was never truly alone and never could be, no matter how hard he might try. He might have found a greater sense of being solitary in a busy cafe or noisy football crowd.
Samuel Coleridge, banging on about his amazing concept for a society where the men get to chill or write and presumably romance the ladies. Whilst forgetting/refusing to acknowledge that the ladies would end up having to run things and romance would be fae from their minds. I've always felt very sorry for his wife.
Interesting as a metaphor. A Buddhist might say nothing exists in and of itself. The table I'm sitting at is only a table by virtue of its function. It consists of many things, cellulose from the tree, the forester, the woodcutter, the manufacturer, painter, polisher, the transporter, retailer and so on. We do not ourselves 'exist' as such, but only in relation to other people and things, stretching out in their millions in space and time. Everything is 'conditioned' by everything else. Nothing is permanent. All is change, ephemeral, momentary. Remove the 'conditioning' as Buddhists call it, and you are left with 'pure' consciousness. Which is nothing. Poor old Kafka was never truly alone and never could be, no matter how hard he might try. He might have found a greater sense of being solitary in a busy cafe or noisy football crowd.
Cf Thoreau having his washing done and food delivered by his mother.
Samuel Coleridge, banging on about his amazing concept for a society where the men get to chill or write and presumably romance the ladies. Whilst forgetting/refusing to acknowledge that the ladies would end up having to run things and romance would be fae from their minds. I've always felt very sorry for his wife.
*far, not fae!