I suspect that Monty Python's send-up of these utterly surreal imaginations
was the skit with the aged author/artist? sitting outdoors in a chair, as the reporter repeatedly refers to him by his full-name: {some thousands of mouth-noises long}
..as the subject finally expired amidst the final recitation: a tribute turned into a threnody, much like
I suppose that such ruminations may so occupy the grey cells in some homo saps as to preclude their otherwise emulating Dr. Moriarty or other fictional Mr. Hyde-grade outliers, becoming just another nasty menace as they age. (So this may be a good thing, in such cases.)
But I fail to see how such MIne's Bigger exercises can take precedent over the efforts needed next by millions of the math-unafflicted: in mere repetitive, pedestrian labors towards planetary rescue from [Twain] The whole damned human race {/Twain] Do. That. ... and there will be time for mental masturbations, again. I wot.
..as the subject finally expired amidst the final recitation: a tribute turned into a threnody, much like
MAHLER: "Das irdische Leben" ("Earthly Life")
[German text from the anthology Des Knaben Wunderhorn (The Youth's Magic Horn)] where the child dies as his mutter repeatedly tells him to wait-a-while ... as the bread bakes.
I suppose that such ruminations may so occupy the grey cells in some homo saps as to preclude their otherwise emulating Dr. Moriarty or other fictional Mr. Hyde-grade outliers, becoming just another nasty menace as they age. (So this may be a good thing, in such cases.)
But I fail to see how such MIne's Bigger exercises can take precedent over the efforts needed next by millions of the math-unafflicted: in mere repetitive, pedestrian labors towards planetary rescue from [Twain] The whole damned human race {/Twain] Do. That. ... and there will be time for mental masturbations, again. I wot.
