I can't remember how long ago, or in precisely which form. I resisted the proposal that truth is a value like any other. It has from time to time btroughnew and unsuspected immune system reactions like any other.
Common sense sensibly detects when it is persuasively drawn to a blunder. Our model of stupidity gestates within our awe at blunders prepared by us for years. We draw great pleasure to behold the ludicrous in others, but it's only fair that we take joy in learning from each-other.
In our delight, we may forgo the opportunity to understand ourselves - even rather hasten to render unintelligible the revoltingly multivarigated expressions of degeneracy.
I do not dwell glumly on the wreakage of a fond delusion that even though I avoided responsibilities, I could console myself with a fleeting glimpse of existence, for all the while discontent passes by no less surely.
How often I've untroubled stumbled, that with curiosity and amusement is given the added pretext that we're half-expected to at least ready with concern and solicitude. Why should I not too share in the wearm glow of conceit lighted in those who thrill in their scorn? And though it has years since I've gone dancing, I step and pivot along the streets. I look at the people all around me. Even Alert, even ever so slightly alarmed
Why should I not too share the warm glow of conceit along with those who thrill in their scorn?