I told my Dad off gently in the street during his visit after he gave £3.50 to a fat, ugly Syrian (Albanian? Roma?) immigrant woman selling The Big Issue. She should recognise me and my familiar walk by now as I pass that way a few times a week. Her shameless, money-grabbing insincerity in putting on a sing-song cheeriness is not enough to sell her act to me. Interestingly, as I stormed past her shaking my head, she fixated on him, but, as the coins were handed over, it was me she looked at, and me she gave the cheeky smile and the "thank you!" to, with vindicated smugness.
I hate that thinly veiled propaganda 'magazine', for the traitorous anti-European content. The writing is also uninspired, bland, and increasingly dumbed down. Familiar. As usual with every other newsman in the UK, we see that it is possible for John Bird to claim to be, in his own words as reported by a United Nations agency worker in 2010, “both profitable and ethically correct” as his ugly little newspaper business continues to serve the present financial interests and future wellbeing of cynical non-European freebooters who are by now so numerous in our population, and so pampered and endorsed in the face of our comprehensive disenfranchisement that it seems we are, as has been clearly demonstrated, on the way out, homeless natives and all.
What a strange ethical high ground to claim. Wikipedia reminds us that he is “non-partisan” (so, in translation, about on par with the self-aggrandizing fantasies of James O' Brien's How They Broke Britain, which manages in the first two post-introductory pages alone to achieve for its Labour Party Guardian benefactors everything it accuses its equally awful opponents of, fulfilling its title by its very publication, in succinct confession, and with supreme hypocrisy, propaganda's myriad slander techniques, and the usual fluid lies by omission), helping to pull their hands up so they can stab us through the throat, an extra grand or so for them to contribute to the furnishing of the government-approved priority social housing dwellings they are simultaneously fast-tracked into as private rental landlords continue to evict their European tenants under financial encouragement offered by the multinational defence company Serco, private contractors to the British government.
I recall my periodic visits to the local shop set up by St Helena Hospice, an independent charity providing bereavement counselling to individuals and their families in north Essex, although I'm not sure how independent they actually are as their official website, full of intrusive customer service pop ups and shifting decals of smart, non-white females posing for the familiar stock photoshoots clustering a soft-edged, pastel-hued 'cloud-bubble' page layout that prioritizes style over substance, and employing one of these cuddly corporate fonts set to pacify pre-schoolers informs me that a third of their funding comes directly from the NHS and that the hospice is the proud member of a vast Essex healthcare alliance. I notice that the Essex Freemasons group sent them a £31,000 gift in 2021 which they have pledged to put into new services designed to assist deprived communities with a specified goal of attracting more black and Asian patients.
A very, shall we say, specific goal on their parts considering that the deprived population of the Tendering District covering an area of 130.34 square miles, is 97.5% white, all 143,669 of those native Europeans left in the lurch for the potential sake of 3684 people. Or indeed a potential 239 foreign-born immigrants out of the 6390 UK-born citizens, majority white or an additional handful who are otherwise, living in Harwich’s Dovercourt area where their charity shop is based. A recent Mosque and Islamic Community Centre development in Dovercourt will cater to Harwich's 85 Muslims, assuming they are all practising.
An odd decision to award to them in an area that struggles consistently to gain government funding for maintenance and redevelopment and that continues along with the reputation of being one of the worst, poorest, most-depressing parts of the UK to inhabit, if not its most neglected town altogether. Where I live on my own street at the Parkeston outskirts estate (masquerading as a village), I am continuously reminded of the scenes from Harmone Korine’s disgusting movie, Gummo. Our environment is more hostile though, and threatening, dirty and decayed, akin to a Third World living standard, the feral European inhabitants despising each other, strong echoes of Edward C. Banfield’s 1955 South Italian town studies in The Moral Basis of a Backward Society.
Typical liberal errors - given that 8% of the global population is of European heritage, I know we appear rather small and measly to your similarly hued smart-mind(s), but I've often thought a total minority might be outnumbered, and more likely to be, on account of that, akin to a dying organ-failure burns case on a tiny specialist wing.
Do we, A. Help her out?
Or B. Continue to make a fortune spreading soma and sunshine on a rat line drip to the dark, crowded wellnesses, only to mysteriously lose the occasional patient now and again, but at least everyone's smiling, and the atrium moves? Where's the bloody triage now, you stupid idiots?!
Beyond browsing for knickknacks, I stop by at the Helena branch in town to drop off piles of old books I think might be of interest to their customers as there's not a great selection in there and everything is of a kind, with their regularly updated selection of tomes on Auschwitz escapees and ostensible British heroics in the Second World War, on 19th Century British naval history and, of course, a shelf devoted to Christianity’s texts, next to multiple bookcases showcasing the infinite recycled parade of contemporary midwives & murder genre fiction that seems to appeal to some women and those bizarre older males inexplicably drawn to the likes of Patricia Cornwell or Clive Cussler, rounded out by a generous selection of basic cookbooks, never catering to Vegans, two to three heavy hardback pictorial compendiums on modern architectural photography and digital photo editing techniques and the familiar coffee table folios on Cézanne and (especially) Paul Gauguin, and then some sporting texts, mainly on football, golf and fishing. There’s a tiny, lacklustre supply of Victorian English literature that never shifts, and the occasional Gothic novel or cheap anthology of early 18th Century prose, perhaps complimented by a book of Robert Burns poems jammed in next to Ernest Hemmingway, and with the weary metamorphosis of the solitary A-Level student edition of any random popular Shakespeare tragedy down the very end, eclipsed recently by a 1980s translation of some Soviet-era Socialist Realism novel pushed in alongside it that I did not care to examine for long.
I am always left a little disappointed as, though the books I deliver are all happily accepted, they never quite seem to make it onto the gaps in the shelves, everything from Leonard Susskind, Robert Kirshner, and Lawrence Krauss to Victor J. Stenger to Kevin MacDonald. Sometimes I intersperse these recognised academics with free copies of my own self-published books, which I take it they simply destroy. I've come to understand that, as with everything else these days, rather than operating the impartial basic service of volunteer staffing a small community goods exchange outpost in return for mild yet regular income streams of public money to aid their charity's vision and maintenance costs, they are instead running a censorious publishing house on the premises, with the dignity of Ezra Pound’s old liars in public places, and a still-botched civilization that doesn’t need hanging on to.
Though I make occasional, carefully selected private donations, and always to individuals, I am, in general, not in favour of random public handouts, charities, political party fundraisers and subscriptions, NGO-status government contractors (we would be here forever), or supporting those who do not give a solitary damn about our country, and the issues that affect our own wretched feudal citizens, more than seeing us as the naïve, otherwise contemptable group custodians of a compliant and profitable piggy bank which they can eternally raid, kicking at our falling corpses as they loot the pockets for final pennies and additional bonus rewards, and then leaping onto their friends' scooters with the ruddy handfuls of harvested iPhones nestled tight in their designer bags and screaming off from the curb to go and smash up a McDonald's.
To be honest, I'd prefer us to drive them into the sea with SA80s, ideally in the hands of the sort of military people you would conventionally expect to be holding one, if only The British Army wasn’t entirely useless and intent on seeing their own country go down in flames, and perhaps be left to watch them stubbornly drown scrambling relentlessly back through the surf against a punching hail of agony, yelling out final curses and angry demands for bloody revenge to their subservient native goons piled up crying and heartbroken on the shore (the latter presumably having failed to rush forward in massed traitor suicide waves and slit the throats of the last loyal defenders of this island), rather than even attempting to re-commandeer dinghies or to swim off from the snapping resolution of those familiar L85 rounds of the late 1970s easing them indelicately into death. They seem slow to get the hint, perhaps on account of a general slowness anyway.
The disciplinary warning techniques of history’s Vlad Țepeș have crossed my mind before regarding the public exhibition of disloyal Europeans and traitors. Or just a reinstated firing squad death penalty. It's not an issue to be enjoyed and doesn't call for sadism, which I don't think can be justified. It reminds me of the official British Counterinsurgency guides on Brutalisation, favourably assessing this approach, popularized as a military technique by the Russian Army during the second Chechnya conflict. On a much smaller scale, the irate Parisian citizens of the Second World War are remembered for shaving the heads of French women accused of sleeping with their enemy.
We are the last living generation-set of Europeans who are afforded the global conditions to heal ourselves and our world though. Two decades will decide, certainly. Time has run out after that, and that situation cannot be reversed. What will happen exactly? Does anyone know? I'm not sure it will ever be possible to predict with any super-fine accuracy. It's just a couple of solid - if limited - approaches to prudent strategizing these days based on a review of the relatively small body of available external data (still massive by many orders of magnitude, and enough to convince someone) highlighting the terrible concrete points that we do know for sure, and always subject to unexpected change that makes it even harder to work and act decisively. I'd prefer a lot of things to occur. They remain unresolved.
A new store has popped up in town to replace the short-lived New Age Wiccan crystal shop and its small staff of thin white female young professionals dressed in loose, colourful Hindu robes over short baggy Western fashion trousers and flicking at their pentagram earrings as they lectured in tones of deep, knowledgeable authority on the cleansing ritual benefits of their home-made Vegan teacakes, as if Vegan teacakes weren’t just a nice snack, albeit somewhat expensive for their quality, pinning up extensive handwritten blurbs highlighting the powerful astral energies of each individual bucket of small, similar, expensively priced stones. This time around the premises is functioning as a temporary bric-a-brac thrift store to gather money for Ukraine. They have leaflets inside showing photos of random babies and broadcasting finely sculpted words of minimalistic sensationalist distress and of the pressing human mobilization required in the here and now to assist them with love in addressing their atrocity, arrayed across a selection of eye-grabbing two-line paragraphs. I reluctantly went in with Abby.
I ‘gaffed’ in front of them when a middle-aged white man arranging the shelves and a twenty-something white female assistant next to him noticed I liked Classical music and offered me a selection of second hand records, happily mentioning my Classical tastes to them, and naming the composers I’d been listening to recorded works of at home, names such as Borodin, Glazunov, Mussorgsky, and Balakirev, “you know, those Russian composers,” asking if they had anything in their current stock by them, perhaps on CD, having genuinely forgotten that these people are ignorant brainwashed ideologues, and just chatting on about the sort of composers and works I like, and why that was, a few thoughts on Russian Romanticism, having assumed neutrality by nature.
They went quiet not long after I had started enthusiastically speaking and seemed to scowl, lingering for a tiny pregnant pause, and then the monotone of an offended conversation stopper directed at me, “Oh. Okay…” and the onset of full glowering silence, ignoring Abby also and turning away from us back to their shelf-stocking, their friendly demeanour as presented at our entry totally inverted. The Classical vinyl records were put back into their containers, and the boxes pushed away against the back wall. Abby, quicker to spot this awkward atmosphere, called me away, that preternatural female instinct to ward off threats to their mask of decency and social standing, anxious always, a ready mortification at the conversational behaviours of her companion, loyal to the judgemental eyes of the crowd, no context required.
I had to leave the premises a few minutes later though as I turned to Abby and passed summary comment on the dire, controlled collapse of the British economy, the cynical manipulation of fuel, food, and energy, the massed ranks of starving citizens on our streets, thrust out by family breakdown and the increasing polarization of relatives, rising rents stimulated by the long term manipulations of flawed central banking policies, too late to avert now, and increased housing demand on account of a growing artificially boosted population of immigrants, ill health across the board in a hostile society, the wrath of the pandemic’s steady loss of so many jobs and small businesses, and the traitorous betrayals and virtue-signalling renovations of those defence ministers devoted to ruining a gutted, anti-white Armed Forces. I said something negative about all politicians also, and about the World Economic Forum and its young global leaders.
My question to her, firmly delivered in company, was, given all this at home, why are continuing to fleece our native citizens to provide cash for an alien foreign country that most couldn't find on a map until recently, have on the whole never visited, have no firm, meaningful historical connection to, have a distinct sub-racial dissimilarity from, and do not in any way possess the years of lived on the ground experience and - co-current to that - deep, complicated background research necessary to adequately analyse and respond to, in any meaningful political, historical, or cultural fashion bar what they can glean online by hastily cribbing from routine mainstream news outbursts, through sly social media propaganda displays and exponential groupthink, through the daily screens of printed lies and the buzzing howl of a million televisions, and by the fiercely-contested, rigid dogmatism of assorted opinion forums, and the intelligence plants, subversives, and bad actors that stuff them, unobtrusively directing the flow of conversation, even as we ourselves are broken, desperate, starving, and shivering to death. Though yes, as one seems to be driven into acknowledging every single time, there will obviously be a few outliers who might know a little more. Still, what the hell are they doing here if so, and why have their abandoned their own direct neighbours and communities?
It’s like browsing the Unz Review and seeing page after page of right-wing Americans obsessed with Israeli and Palestinian politics or the “we must assist our brothers abroad” Nationalist types of Counter Currents and Patriotic Alternative who – at least with the latter – already have approximately 55,211,500 of those brothers, sisters, sons, and daughters living on the same island with them (so quite enough to protect already), yet alone all the wildlife and the domesticated farm animals and pets, and yet continue to evenly weight their coverage across the entire Western world, much as the events of Russia and Ukraine, and America, and the countries of the Middle East seem to fascinate them beyond compare and monopolise their discussions, thus ensuring that they can’t dwell in that much detail on their own bloody stretch of homeland soil, or perhaps read a book on something that isn’t just more f**king politics and then step out onto their land.
Monitoring global current affairs and constantly progressing news cycle broadcasts and then chatting about what you’ve found out that day is an addictive hobby more than anything of practical efficacy. Yes, a global pan-European civilization (by which one means White Nordid, all other European racial types remaining subhuman) is a nice, honest thing to think, but let’s start small, shan’t we? If you live in the UK, you don’t live in any of these countries. You’d form better pro-European alliances with your own people across this island if you dropped activism and the pursuit of politics altogether rather than needing to drag in the voice, authority and issue-set of every white non-native nationalist group member and little activist network spokesperson you can root out abroad and cajole out of the woodwork.
You might also have to come to terms with the uncomfortable realities of Nordicism. If you can't even admit that your own recent ancestors ended the world, and are to be held accountable for this, you're going to have problems announcing that those of them before that violated your racial phenotypes also, corrupting your genetics through poor mate choices, and some considerable way back. Genetics (or archaeogenetics) is often a superficial excuse. Just look at your exterior forms, your faces and bodies, their minds and actions. You're dung.
As I wrote before, I don’t relate well to White Nationalists and right-wing thinkers, the discrete 'national supremacists' of England and America, as I call them. I see the communistic Athenian democracy of their massed online alternative media forums, and I have no respect for - or interest in - their proud, cruel, egalitarian conservatism, that brutish bourgeois capitalism and psychiatric Neochristianity, always the resolute pacifism and the scolding of braver men. As with Christians, they are more concerned with protecting the members of their artificial closed doors political in-group than they are with general Europeans external to this, an unwarranted and clandestine favouritism, and a cynical moneymaker.
I can conclude that if, by some weary miracle, uncommon in the charity business, the money we contribute (to the mainstream organizations or to any begging group) did reach its stated targets, we would have done nothing more by this act than confirm our participation in a deracinated post-European World State, with one group of brow-beaten, mass produced, useless eater peasants as equal, interchangeable, and expendable as another. It's just that they've got all our cash now. Perhaps the counterpoint act of not blithely flinging away coerced aid may have some small impact on curtailing the war, or at least altering it in the eyes of Whitehall and a few offices of disappointed MoD war-hawks and arms contractors, unable to fulfil their orders and directives with the same efficiency, whilst allowing us to be genuinely impartial. Much as it is tempting to imagine the nuclear flames licking Kiev, and indeed useful if one considers the long-term strategy of obliterating NATO's hold on Germany and the rest of Europe, leaving an extended window of opportunity for the citizens themselves to respond to the horrors imposed on them, I simply can't fathom in the interim how we can survive if this stupid situation isn't at least thwarted to some degree, given that a quick, well-funded escalation on our parts would, with some likelihood, seal our own nuclear doom, and, personally, we do live right in between Colchester, Felixstowe, and Orford Ness. Slowing us down doesn't slow Vladimir Putin down in Ukraine (except perhaps psychologically; anyone subjected to a new bout of exponentially escalating UKUSA military industrial complex aggression is bound to at least be on edge) but it protects our resources here, now, in these worsening days, and we are facing a terrible collapse. Anyhow, it's a moot point, and I'm sure the money will continue pouring in at pace.
I had used to think, incorrectly, that Russia was slightly more dangerous in the short-term. Now I've gone back to thinking everyone's becoming more dangerous, and the long-term is forever clouded if not antithetical to human life. Russia remains a decayed criminal hole, its population never as racially coherent and competent as Europeans, even from long before the tragic onset of the Bolshevik revolution and over 70 years of brutal communist misery under the Soviet Union (the last 36 years a little better after Stalin's death), its history never genuinely European, and its Slavic population always corrupted by Mongol breeding, and the general population not predominantly Slavic at all, more so than is often recognised, the founding mythologies of Russian patriotism having imprinted a popular misconception in claiming unblemished linear descent from a 9th Century Scandinavian warrior nobility. A backwards empire, always, despite the contributions of German settlers in the 18th Century and the Germanic nobles that survived in their royal families until the early 20th Century.
However, the Anglo-American madness we face was not imposed upon the European natives of Britain by the decisions of Vladimir Putin and the ministers and generals of the Russia Federation. I had forgotten that every Western governmental enclave masquerading as a clear-cut national leader in their front for the public serves only as a geographical substation of paid-off, share-invested bureaucrats, a managerial class for one faction or other of what is effectively a One World Government under the thumb of American finance and central banking, and the financial business centres of The City of London.
I've put Putin out of my mind for a while. Russia has its own interests and is not globally imperialist or even genuinely expansionist beyond defending its borders and buffering against a steady campaign of mobbed Western political aggression and the strong desire to reclaim or otherwise maintain a grip on its historical territories. The US Military Industrial Complex and the bullying use of NATO on Europe is a surveyable threat manifestation of far greater imposition. There is an obvious control nexus much closer to us that will direct that Americanized World Government's agenda regardless of him, camped on top of our very own country. No real difference anywhere. Led to an unavoidable conclusion that something is very wrong, and has been wrong for quite some time, why are we allowing these people, who we pay gross taxes to so they can fund ventures that we have no say in and that do not agree with, and who patently despise us, to strip away our wealth from yet another angle and transfer it overseas under black propaganda pretences and with no chance of recuperation? We could well be considered that stupid, and that ignorant, but do we hate ourselves that much?!
Abby got flustered at this point. I was gently yet firmly told off for "making a scene." She flashed a quick, apologetic glance at the two frumpy, over 50s white women minding the till. I decided I couldn't remain in there. Oh dear, another rude man. Perhaps he's mentally ill. It's often easier for her, and everyone else I talk to, to cope with all the above than to cope with the embarrassment of someone saying it openly to them, especially within earshot of the very people perpetrating it on them. In general, it's not even coping, they just don't give a damn beyond social graces, much as they keep pretending to “care about key issues” and all that “but you can’t… we must…” gesturing.
As for the 'Syrian' street-stalker woman, Dad replied that I was a bigot. Perhaps he liked her dress or something. It was a strangely feminine display of misplaced chivalry on his part, the same as him always chiding me for being a monster because I differ academically from him, having put some thought into it.
He has the bonus at least of not accepting to 'agree to differ', with both people being 'equally' right, which is obviously nonsense logically and which could never exist in nature by empirical understanding of truth. In effect that interpersonal gimmick of linguistic sophistry isn't a genuine agreement or reconciliatory ‘tolerance’ at all, merely a diffusive mechanism of passive aggression for the more powerful party to extricate themselves from being put on the spot, so they can stubbornly blaze on ahead in their deep-seated convictions without adequate caution applied to external consultation and the potentially sound evaluations, proposed corrections, and developmental improvements of others, an arrogant and cowardly conceit that can often last their entire lives. There being an observable physical world and a set of outcomes after all, and not a separate physical world tailored to the internal tastes of each separate person for them to dream about and feel comfortable with and present to the person next to them on and on in a non-overlapping line, as if we were each a little drying ink blot on one page of a horizontal stack of neatly divided A4 sheets locked in place on the lowest lightless shelf of a packed filing cabinet.
I expect eventually some wretched person with invoke the annoying many worlds hypothesis to me over that, perhaps sending me a videoclip of Michio Kaku, or quoting something trendy by David Deutsch, or just the vague auto-argument yeah-but of a “hey, actually, don’t scientists say…” retort, which is probably a more expectable rejection of the obvious, despite their conveniently reserved ultimate set of all universes liable to still be doled out to me by them as the multiple disjoint sets of each example of an ultimate set of all universes - more of the usual, with one ultimate set for them and one for me, or something of that nonsensical linguistic nature - if I initially humoured them on their face-saving narcissistic relativism ‘multiverse’ but then went on to say something else they couldn’t cope with, not content with ultimacy.
No matter the ‘playing the multiverse card’ get out clause, they are still consciously aware in their physical location to the degree that both them and the other consciously aware person paired to them in close bodily proximity at this location can observe the physical book on pragmatic epistemology resting open next to the physical popular science book of physical cosmology explaining mathematics as the tangible expression of nature’s beauty, both books placed on the garden chair between the pair of them, and with the natural world all around them and the soil of the earth beneath their feet and the printed lines on the scientific logic of transactional inquiry that assumes no pre-knowledge of either organism or environment as adequate but requires the acceptance of a common system, as an only means to develop from the protologic of a priori metaphysics exhibited in the superstitious self-action historically associated with primitive peoples, not too far from the neighbouring lines of physical ink that read “we never are definitely right; we can only be sure we are wrong”, and can, hopefully, at least acknowledge that human error can be made, but yet there is presumably something more than an empty them in that physical “we” location, much as the word “Self” alone is easier to chuck about with those third-person, some-people-other-people others than to gain individual awareness of (and no matter how many other separate instances they could consider of these personal physical minds of theirs in the physical skulls of the bodies in whatever additional dimensions of whatever M-theory pretension – of the ~10 to the power of 272,000 estimated compactifications – they would like to mess about with in their sand-pit).
Interestingly, in a sensible context, I read that Roger Penrose has some advice over going too far into extreme modern Physics hypotheses, warding us away from all the brane-cosmology and Kolmogorov complexity of the computer science types. I also keep books on ‘dark matter’ myself, but I’m not sure it exists. Very recently I was reading a paper by Jonathan Oppenheim (and Andrea Russo) who, as with quite a few of the theorists I’ve approached, has questioned this concept, much as it was reading the physical cosmology of Penrose (and then the astrophysicist Mordehai Milgrom’s work, to a degree) who encouraged me on this. That said, it’s difficult to work through, and way beyond me, rendering large segments of the maths impenetrable, and I’m not sure about his attempt to present a post-quantum gravity model as I’m generally wary of any method in physics that relies primarily on stochastic processes, just as it seems the case that all computational methods of generating random numbers (or other symbols) fall short, and non-deterministic physical entropy phenomena hardware methods tend to have asymmetrical problems and systematic errors in their observations, and a much slower generation rate, much as true randomness isn’t possible in classical physics.
I also consider quantum computing a monumental waste of time and energy, given the proposed number of entanglements necessary. Anything referencing a ‘singularity’ immediately puts me off. I prefer an experimental attitude to be present as opposed to all this complex theorizing and constant unfalsifiable invention. I wish they’d draw back to older modern physics.
It’s enough for the first point I made some paragraphs back to understand that words, as a reflection of a person’s thoughts, are carriers of meaning, much as they are also a carrier of information. The process of understanding cannot be derived from the sum of the individual components, words presenting both sematic information in different syntactic information streams, and polysemantic interpretations of the information in each individual stream, all extractions of meaning a subjective measurement in different people, multiplicative and non-linear, whilst information is an objective measurement. Holographic consciousness would make more sense if that non-linearity was acknowledged.
My father at least acknowledges that someone is wrong here. After all, in my mind, though the first-order logic appears sound to both of us (and he can phrase it with considerably more depth and skill, more used to the papers of Einstein and his many peers, coming across as fluent, by my exaggerative euphemism), the quantified variables agreed, on account of some grand commitment to laborious patterns of self-in-world honesty, our given interpretation, horrifying as it is, does not seem to allow us to declare every single sentence satisfiable on account of its pleasant, calming existence in one huge, mad formula of warped logical baselessness, despite the sneakiness that can be hidden sometimes in unsound semantics by those who wish woe, their neurotic love of postmodern attempts to jam in the lesser if not impossible by brute force, myself having both personally encountered, to varying degrees, the life-experience phenomenon of what effective deception is as a passive recipient, and more than one written explanation summarizing the action of deception nonetheless, conducted in spiteful preternatural hisses from the rims of the cots rattling in their skull-eaves.
In a similar nerdy manner, but with some commitment to regeneration, ranked hierarchies, and basic operations (and despite some concerns over some difficulties in non-linear dynamics, which can be beyond me really), I have never yet seen 0 expressed mathematically as 1 in a way that seems pleasing (enough), whereas quite a lot of other humble minds clearly have. Also, a pair of 100% contradictory arguments, a statement pair in contradiction if we'd like to be obtuse with logical incompatibility, can be expressed by the logic that 'P implies Q' is always true, regardless of whether 'Q' is true or false, if 'P' is false. Thus if 'P' in inner form is 'p•~p' it is always false and can imply anything, and their argument is in effect claiming to be sound (valid; all premises true) and unsound - so false then - that not making much sense, one of their additional statements asserted after 'P' generally having '~P' as a logical consequence, and we must remember that nothing forbids a valid argument with false premises for having a false conclusion.
In practice we find that one person or the other is generally more informed and sensical (discussions in principle generally being a shared exercise for two fallible people to work something out with rather than a foregone conclusions debate to the death, and the shoehorning in of obscene formal logic standards not really a viable technique day to day, and hardly necessary), although it’s generally the person with the greater level of power and back-up who will win regardless, as these people have no interest in truth, validity, and resolution, as much as winning by sophistry, foot stamping (or "food stamping", as I initially typed), and sheer petulance, and getting their piece in as something somehow adequate in the abstract, on some weird ‘human rights’ aspiration, that long institutionalized presumption, regardless of context and the strength of their argument, not usually stepping beyond linguistics and into physical observation. This ex-civilization allows them to do that, by its very structuring.
It's just that it's me, categorically, who ‘has to’ be wrong, in the eyes of every single human I have ever talked to across my entire life, bar perhaps three literal individuals in nigh on full agreement, one more so than the other if I compare the first two with each other, with a decade passing from losing the first to encountering the second, and one remaining alive these days, and in full agreement, found another three years on, and far off, the other two having killed themselves.
コメント