Life is indeed a vale of tears, my friends: last night, while riding my bike along the ol' riding lane in my characteristic happy-go-lucky, worry-free way, reflecting on a bad joke my father had told me, I was suddenly pitched from my bike, possibly because something (but what?) had gotten in my spokes, possibly because my shoelaces (but how?) had gotten in the gears, resulting in a scraped knee and a right radial head fracture (that's in the elbow) and a probable right scaphoid fracture (wrist). That's, like, my note-taking hand! My knife-wielding hand, and several other kinds of hand, too.
Then, this morning I found out that my car, which I had generously lent to another for the night, had been, through no fault of her own, hit while parked.
Fortunately, I had had the first meeting of a Schopenhauer reading group last night, so I recognize these occurrences as irruptions of a blind , reasonless, and yet somehow malevolent will, and I take corresponding comfort in that—that and the fact that I don't have gout.
Recent Comments