I’ve changed my mind, based on late-breaking news. This is now the QOTD for January 11th:
Various medical authorities swarm in and out of here predicting I have between two days and two months to live. I think they are guessing. I remain cheerful and unimpressed. I look forward without dogmatic optimism but without dread. I love you all and I deeply implore you to keep the lasagna flying.
Please pardon my levity, I don’t see how to take death seriously. It seems absurd.
That’s Robert Anton Wilson, posted to his blog on January 6th. (You may recall I noted he had started blogging back in December.)
I hope when my time comes, I can go with a smile on my lips and a healthy sense of the absurd.
Here’s one bit of Wilson’s famous Illuminatus! Trilogy that always makes me smile:
(While the most obscure, seemingly trivial part of the whole puzzle appeared in a department store in Houston. It was a sign that said:
NO SMOKING. NO SPITTING.
THE MGT.This replaced an earlier sign that had hung on the main showroom wall for many years, saying only
NO SMOKING
THE MGT.The change, although small, had subtle repercussions. The store catered only to the very wealthy, and this clientele did not object to being told that they could not smoke. The fire hazard, after all, was obvious. On the other hand, that bit about spitting was somehow a touch offensive; they most certainly were not the sort of people who would spit on somebody’s floor-or, at least, none of them had done such a thing at any time since about one month or at most one year after they became wealthy. Yes, the sign was definitely bad diplomacy.
Resentment festered. Sales fell off. And membership in the Houston branch of God’s Lightning increased. Wealthy, powerful membership.
(The odd thing was that the Management had nothing at all to do with the sign.)
Here’s another bit that I quite like:
“You have the talent,” Drake said coldly, “but you are still basically a fraud, like everyone in this business. Your worst victim, madam, is yourself. You deceive yourself with the lies that you have so often told others. It’s the occupational disease of mystics. The truth is that it doesn’t matter whether I destroy myself alone or destroy this planet — or turn around and try to find my way to the right-hand path in some dreary monastery. The universe will roll blindly along, not caring, not even knowing. There’s no Granddaddy in the clouds to pass a last judgement — there’s only a few airplanes up there, learning more and more about how to carry bombs. They court-martialed General Mitchell for saying it, but it’s the truth. The next time around they’ll really bomb the hell out of civilian populations. And the universe won’t know or care about that either. Don’t tell me that my flight from Death leads back to Death; I’m not a child, and I know that all paths lead back to Death eventually. The only question is: Do you cower before him all your life, or do you spit in his eye?”
Maybe if I get a few minutes today I’ll also look up that scene that I seem to remember is in the first Historical Illuminatus book where Wilson does such a good job with old wife/mistress/Paris joke.
