She Stands Alone She stands alone,   a single bulb lighting   an entire room,   the walls curved   into her private sphere.     No doors.   No windows.   No-one can break in.   Her world is the only world   and all things lie within her scope,   sealed within her soul.     Solitary appetites   she pursues   in consecrated isolation,   in this her sacristy,   her prison, her cell —   an inside   with no conceivable outside.

Private Language In / creasing thought, the self   doubles / folds  inwards,  suppose a private language  against the world’s shared grammar —   self-authored, a book   written for no .  one.    A page     torn away, stains     in the margins, a footnote    wrongly numbered, the letter ‘i’    faintly printed.      Such is the pain of the man  who yearns  for his whole self   between the covers of biography   and meets only   estrangement.

Wittgenstein's Willing Subject: How the Happy Life Is the Only Right Life [complete] New on Academia.edu (DOC) Wittgenstein's Willing Subject: How the Happy Life Is the Only Right Life [complete]

The Selfish Self     I am my world – A world apart.   Apart from me there is nothing.   The world is mine.   It arises from the...

What the Mirror Said     I am the image and you are the body.  In the mirror we appear complete;  We are whole: two as one.  For a few...

I came, through sea waves, misty-brained,  My love songs crumbling to shadows,  And I was halved to something  Less than human. How could I grow  Into something more than what I had become?  Impossible now, the diminishing returns  Of what was given me at birth.  Smaller than a baby now, more of a creature  Belonging to the forests, of stumps  And traps and blood, the day-moon  Hanging over me like a sad reminder.  I was lost, having become lost, and unable  To return to wher

I am only fully actual when determined in all of my parts, when I am the sum of all predicates that can be attributed to me. Only then I am fully cognized and known as I truly am. May I present myself as the Absolute I?

Irked Like a sacred text folded in on itself, a page half torn away, stains in the margins, a footnote wrongly numbered, the letter ‘i’...

Seeing this house, that tree, the sky – my experience is already in accord with certain classes of thought*. World anterior to thought...

The eye looks, the ear waits, the head turns, the heart aches, the lung breathes, the hand gropes.   Skull! cerebral hemispheres! limbic...

The Humanzee  In the heat of a celluloid American night, Doctor Franklin Ahab — host to a crowd of forty souls — walks in a stately manner through the upper rooms of his Massachusetts mansion. He descends the wide staircase, smiling and reeling off witty one-liners. An orchestra plays The Rite of Spring  in the enormous dining hall. For a few minutes Ahab casually mingles among his guests, then calls for the conductor to settle down. Hester, his life partner in a transparent