What the Philosophers say about reality is often as deceptive as when you see a sign in a second-hand store that reads: Pressing Done Here. If you went in with your clothes to have them pressed you would be fooled; the sign is for sale.
— Søren Kierkegaard, “Diapsalmata” from Either/Or.
Here's an interesting parable one of my (no-longer-single) friends came up with.
The mysterious ways of fate, as a rusty lawnmower. I like it.
Of course, this doesn't really help those of us who are single and baffled by said mysteries, but at least we have a humerous metaphor now. Life is always better when someone can explain your situation with a parable, isn't it?
A fire broke out backstage in a theatre. The Clown came out to warn the public; they thought it was a joke and applauded. He repeated it; the acclaim was even greater. I think that's just how the world will come to an end: to general applause from wits who believe it's a joke.
— Søren Kierkegaard, “Diapsalmata” from Either/Or.
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2 comments:
I don't get it. Am I the Grass, or the Lawnmower, or Neither? Does it imply that God is a rusty lawnmower? If so, what are the consequences of that? Fate is, after all, only the working out of the Divine Plan in the earthly realm (you remember *that* from ALL of my courses, don't you??)
Further: is being mown a good thing or a bad thing? (No salacioius comments here.)
Indeed, how hard can it be, even when the grass has indeed grown long, and the lawnmowers are *all* rusty?
My brain hurts.
Prof. E.
Love itself is but a rusty lawnmower, and we are but grass in the lawn of eternity.
Or, as a sage prophet of a far-off land once said: "sometimes you're the windshield, sometimes you're the bug."
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