What could any book, a mere vessel of subjective interpretation, tell us about time, an invisible system of measuring change? It turns out that I felt neither deceived nor confused — or, rather, I did feel those things, but about the subject and not the book. But a subject like time travel, as we savvy citizens of the 21st century well know by now, is rife with paradox, and any account of its history must not only engage with those incongruities but transcend them in some powerful way. There has to be, in other words, more insight than one would find in a given episode of Doctor Who.
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This sentence is made of yak wool. This sentence is made of sunlight and plums. This sentence is made of ice. This sentence is made from the blood of the poet. This sentence was made in Japan. This sentence glows in the dark. This sentence was born with a caul. This sentence has a crush on Norman Mailer. Like many italic sentences, this one has Mafia connections. This sentence is a double Cancer with a Pisces rising. This sentence lost its mind searching for the perfect paragraph.
This sentence refuses to be diagrammed. This sentence ran off with an adverb clause. This sentence is percent organic: it will not retain a facsimile of freshness like those sentences of Homer, Shakespeare, Goethe et al. This sentence leaks. This sentence has accepted Jesus Christ as its personal savior.
This sentence can do the funky chicken. This sentence has seen too much and forgotten too little. This sentence is called "Speedoo" but its real name is Mr. This sentence may be pregnant. This sentence suffered a split infinitive - and survived. This sentence went to jail with Clifford Irving.
This sentence went to Woodstock. And this little sentence went wee wee wee all the way home. I believe in nothing; everything is sacred. When they tell you to grow up, they mean stop growing. Reach a nice level plateau and settle there, predictable and unchanging, no longer a threat. Therefore, to live one must be ready to die. But for a woman, marriage is surrender. What a sad bum deal. Rescue yourself!
The problem with possessing such an engaging toy is that other people want to play with it, too. Or they object if you play with yours in a different manner from the way they play with theirs. The result is, a few games out of a toy department of possibilities are universally and endlessly repeated.
Our political and economic and social leaders drool about stability constantly. Stabilization to them means order, uniformity, control. No matter how thoroughly they control a system, disorder invariably leaks into it. Then the managers panic, rush to plug the leak and endeavor to tighten the controls.
Therefore, totalitarianism grows in viciousness and scope. True stability results when presumed order and presumed disorder are balanced.
A truly stable system expects the unexpected, is prepared to be disrupted, waits to be transformed. The more obstacles set up to prevent happiness from appearing, the greater the shock when it does appear, just as the rebound of a spring will be all the more powerful the greater the pressure that has been exerted to compress it.
Care must be taken, however, to select large obstacles, for only those of sufficient scope and scale have the capacity to lift us out of context and force life to appear in an entirely new and unexpected light.
For example, should you litter the floor and tabletops of your room with small objects, they constitute little more than a nuisance, an inconvenient clutter that frustrates you and leaves you irritable; the petty is mean. Cursing, you step around the objects, pick them up, knock them aside. Should you, on the other hand, encounter in your room a nine thousand pound granite boulder, the surprise it evokes, the extreme steps that must be taken to deal with it, compel you to see with new eyes.
Difficulties illuminate existence, but they must be fresh and of high quality. When they coincide, success results. It is questionable, for that matter, whether success is an adequate resposne to life.
Success can eliminate as many options as failure. The Chink: I believe in political solutions to political problems. Sissy: Well, then, what are the philosophical solutions?
The Chink: Ha ha ho ho and hee hee. And magic. At every level. If civilization is ever going to be anything but a grandiose pratfall, anything more than a can of deodorizer in the shithouse of existence, then statesmen are going to have to concern themselves with magic and poetry. Bankers are going to have to concern themselves with magic and poetry. Time magazine is going to have to write about magic and poetry. Factory workers and housewives are going to have to get their lives entangled in magic and poetry.
Sissy: Do you think such a thing can ever happen? A survey such as that could keep a dozen dull sociologists out of mischief for months.
In times such as ours, however, when there is too much order, too much management, too much programming and control, it becomes the duty of superior men and women to fling their favorite monkey wrenches into the machinery.
To relive the repression of the human spirit, they must sow doubt and disruption. But neither have I gone out and picked fights with authority. Authority is to be ridiculed, outwitted and avoided. And it is fairly easy to do all three. You end up contradicting what you profess to believe in, and you set a bum example. If you want to change the world, change yourself. Purposes are for animals with a hell of a lot more dignity than the human race!
Back Creek Books
This self-consciousness is a distancing mechanism that serves as a disclaimer to the many philosophical ideas presented in this book. Her thumbs are so impossibly large that she is impaired from performing mundane tasks such as buttoning her dress. But, apparently heeding the call of her own physiological destiny, she develops a love of hitchhiking. After she runs away from her oafish parents at the age of seventeen, she becomes an underground legend, her hitchhiking exploits spoken of throughout the land. She also grows into a beautiful woman, and is drafted into occasional modeling work by the Countess, a male homosexual feminine-hygiene tycoon.
Even Cowgirls Get the Blues – Language Over Story
Sissy capitalizes on the size of her thumbs by becoming a hitchhiker and subsequently travels to New York. The character becomes a model for The Countess, a male homosexual tycoon of menstrual hygiene products. In her later travels, she encounters, among many others, a sexually open cowgirl named Bonanza Jellybean and an itinerant escapee from a Japanese internment camp happily mislabeled The Chink. The Chink is presented as a hermetic mystic and, at one point writes on a cave wall, "I believe in everything; nothing is sacred.
Even Cowgirls Get the Blues
[PDF] Even Cowgirls Get the Blues Book by Tom Robbins Free Download (366 pages)