nospam wrote:
"Douglas Eagleson" <eagleson2004123@yahoo.com> wrote in message
news:1105038559.310862.248310@z14g2000cwz.googlegroups.com...
A detector for the quantum system is proposed. In Copenhagen a
statistical existence is proposed. And to prove statistics either
truly
existent or nonexistent is the objective. Thus defining it
complete or
incomplete as a theory.
So, I propose to one-up Einstein's detector system, because common
scientists do not believe Einstein.
*There is a literature that does not reach the voracious mass. It is
the
work of creators, issued from a real necessity in the author,
produced for
himself. It expresses the knowledge of a supreme egoism, in which
laws
wither away. Every page must explode, either by profound heavy
seriousness,
the whirlwind, poetic frenzy, the new, the eternal, the crushing
joke,
enthusiasm for principles, or by the way in which it is printed. On
the one
hand a tottering world in flight, betrothed to the glockenspiel of
hell, on
the other hand: new men. Rough, bouncing, riding on hiccups. Behind
them a
crippled world and literary quacks with a mania for improvement.
I say unto you: there is no beginning and we do not tremble, we are
not
sentimental. We are a furious Wind, tearing the dirty linen of clouds
and
prayers, preparing the great spectacle of disaster, fire,
decomposition.* We
will put an end to mourning and replace tears by sirens screeching
from one
continent to another. Pavilions of intense joy and widowers with the
sadness
of poison. Physics is the signboard of abstraction; advertising and
business
are also elements of poetry.
I destroy the drawers of the brain and of social organization: spread
demoralization wherever I go and cast my hand from heaven to hell, my
eyes
from hell to heaven, restore the fecund wheel of a universal circus
to
objective forces and the imagination of every individual.
Philosophy is the question: from which side shall we look at life,
God, the
idea or other phenomena. Everything one looks at is false. I do not
consider
the relative result more important than the choice between cake and
cherries
after dinner. The system of quickly looking at the other side of a
thing in
order to impose your opinion indirectly is called dialectics, in
other
words, haggling over the spirit of fried potatoes while dancing
method
around it. If I cry out:
Ideal, ideal, ideal,
Knowledge, knowledge, knowledge,
Boomboom, boomboom, boomboom,
I have given a pretty faithful version of progress, law, morality and
all
other fine qualities that various highly intelligent men have
discussed in
so manv books, only to conclude that after all everyone dances to his
own
personal boomboom, and that the writer is entitled to his boomboom:
the
satisfaction of pathological curiosity; a private bell for
inexplicable
needs; a bath; pecuniary difficulties; a stomach with repercussions
in life;
the authority of the mystic wand formulated as the bouquet of a
phantom
orchestra made up of silent fiddle bows greased with philtres made of
chicken manure. With the blue eye-glasses of an angel they have
excavated
the inner life for a dime's worth of unanimous gratitude. If all of
them are
right and if all pills are Pink Pills, let us try for once not to be
right.
Some people think they can explain rationally, by thought, what they
think.
But that is extremely relative. Psychoanalysis is a dangerous
disease, it
puts to sleep the anti-objective impulses of men and systematizes the
bourgeoisie. There is no ultimate Truth. The dialectic is an amusing
mechanism which guides us / in a banal kind of way / to the opinions
we had
in the first place. Does anyone think that, by a minute refinement of
logic,
he has demonstrated the truth and established the correctness of
these
opinions? Logic imprisoned by the senses is an organic disease. To
this
element philosophers always like to add: the power of observation.
But
actually this magnificent quality of the mind is the proof of its
impotence.
We observe, we regard from one or more points of view, we choose them
among
the millions that exist. Experience is also a product of chance and
individual faculties. Science disgusts me as soon as it becomes a
speculative system, loses its character of utility-that is so useless
but is
at least individual. I detest greasy objectivity, and harmony, the
science
that finds everything in order. Carry on, my children, humanity . . .
Science says we are the servants of nature: everything is in order,
make
love and bash your brains in. Carry on, my children, humanity, kind
bourgeois and journalist virgins . . . I am against systems, the most
acceptable system is on principle to have none. To complete oneself,
to
perfect oneself in one's own littleness, to fill the vessel with
one's
individuality, to have the courage to fight for and against thought,
the
mystery of bread, the sudden burst of an infernal propeller into
economic
lilies.... Every product of disgust capable of becoming a negation of
the
family is Physics; a protest with the fists of its whole being
engaged in
destructivc action:
*Dada; knowledge of all the means rejected up until now by the
shamefaced
sex of comfortable compromise and good manners:
Physics; abolition of logic, which is the dance of those impotent to
create:
Physics; of every social hierarchy and equation set up for the sake
of
values by our valets:
Physics; every object, all objects, sentiments, obscurities,
apparitions and
the precise clash of parallel lines are weapons for the fight:
Physics; abolition of memory:
Physics; abolition of archaeology:
Physics; abolition of prophets:
Physics; abolition of the future:
Physics; absolute and unquestionable faith in every god that is the
immediate product of spontaneity:* Physics; elegant and unprejudiced
leap
from a harmony to the other sphere; trajectory of a word tossed like
a
screeching phonograph record; to respect all individuals in their
folly of
the moment: whether it be serious, fearful, timid, ardent, vigorous,
determined, enthusiastic; to divest one's church of every useless
cumbersome
accessory; to spit out disagreeable or amorous ideas like a luminous
waterfall, or coddle them -with the extreme satisfaction that it
doesn't
matter in the least-with the same intensity in the thicket of one's
soul-pure of insects for blood well-born, and gilded with bodies of
archangels. Freedom:
Physics Physics Physics, a roaring of tense colors, and interlacing
of
opposites and of all contradictions, grotesques, inconsistencies:
LIFE
That is quite a reply. Thanks for the expression of yourselfs.
.
