Many people, usually grinds, extol the virtues of plain hard work–the 1% inspiration, 99% perspiration school. What’s stupid about this is the idea that the inspiration is due to genes, the perspiration due to strength of character. What is stupid about it is that the strength of character required to do hard work is due to genes. I bring this up because I commented on some Internet article pushing the idea that we all have the potential to be geniuses, saying something like, “the silliest belief about success in a field is that the will to rise to the top is not genetically-based.” I repeat it here because it seems so obvious to me, but apparently to very few others. Where do they think the aptitude for hard work comes from?
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As ever, venerable Establishment icon Vendler pays standard attention to varieties of poetry standard by the fifties or earlier, but seems unaware that anything else (visual, infraverbal and mathematical poetry, for instance) exists. She’s competent at what she limitedly does, however, so her book would probably be worth getting for apprentice readers and writers of poetry–until commercial or academic publishers of books like hers accidently publish one by someone knowledgeable about the best poetry composed since 1950. –Bob Grumman
Gotta let off steam once in a while.
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I can’t understand how in the world people who believe consciousness is something that evolved think it came about. I consider the universe to consist of matter and consciousness and to be eternal. Otherwise, I have to believe in something from nothing, and I can’t.
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I can’t understand, either, why some believe that the law of cause and effect doesn’t hold in some situations, it makes free will possible. It may make predetermination impossible, but it so far as will is concerned, why is a chance-determined effect different from a natural-law-determined effect? Similarly, I’ve always wondered why many people think environmental-determinism somehow gives us “freedom” that genetic-determinism can’t.
I think fate, whatever it is, determines every time-unit of our lives, however small, and there’s nothing we can do about it, whether fate throws dice or follows a rule-book. And all one’s consciousness can do is observe what happens to the body containing it. Or in some other way in touch with it.
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Despite how sleepy I am, I can still repeat old thoughts like these.