Category: Varia

Another ‘Too Late’ Story: Elizabeth Wolgast

Long-time reader Dave Bagwill wrote to tell me that he tried to contact  his old professor at Cal State, Hayward, Elizabeth Wolgast, but was too late. "She was  a very fine woman with a penetrating intellect and a warm heart," Dave recalls.  From Wolgast's obituary:

Elizabeth H. Wolgast
Feb 27, 1929 – Oct 13, 2020
Elizabeth Wolgast, died October 13 from complications following a stroke on October 1: she was 91. Elizabeth was born in Dunellen, NJ in February 1929. In 1936 her family moved to a farm outside Philadelphia run by her mother (a degreed nutritionist) while her father worked in business. She studied water-color painting as a young woman which became a life-long passion for her. She met her husband, Richard, at a drawing class at Cornell University and they married in 1949. Elizabeth went on to earn a PhD in Philosophy at the University of Washington and had a long, distinguished career teaching at the Cal State University at Hayward. She was a trailblazer in her profession being the first tenured female professor in that department. She was still the only one there when she retired. She enjoyed visiting professorships at Dartmouth College, Cambridge (England), West Point, and Abo (Finland). She authored four philosophy texts and numerous journal articles.

Read the rest. Here is her PhilPapers page.

I just now ordered a used copy of  Wolgast's Paradoxes of Knowledge for a paltry $8.34.  You may wish to spring for a new copy for a mere 529 semolians.  

We best honor a philosopher by reading his work and thinking his thoughts, sympathetically, but critically.

As a general rule, you should never buy a book you haven't read. (That sounds like a bit of a paradox itself.) But the Wolgast volume appeared under the Cornell imprint, so it is probably worth reading in part if not in toto. I sense that it will be heavily Wittgensteinian. But a little Wittgenstein never hurt anybody.

Time was, when I had space for books but no money. Now it is the other way around.  I may have to buy a bigger house. Without books would life be worth living?

In these trying times, we who value high culture need to build vast private libraries that cannot be easily marauded by the totalitarian agents of leftist destruction. We also need to lay in righteous supplies of Pb to protect them. 

Theme music: It's Too Late, She's Gone

Wolgast

 

Do not go maskless . . .

. . . into that open air.

Or leave your house at night.

But rage, rage against the pusillanimity of your fright.

Your soul's a pussy that cannot take a dare.

So rage, rage against those who masklessly enjoy the open air.

………………………………..

Addendum (3/7). Is there an etymological connection between 'pussy and 'pusillanimous'? Here is the answer.

Substack

I opened an account yesterday. Only one entry so far, and less than ten subscribers. It's free.  Go here and do a search on my name.

If you are a good writer and impecunious, you can turn a buck on this site.  On second thought, you can do so whether or not you are impecunious.  The quality of the writing on Substack and the standing of many of the authors suggests to me that the latter-day book burners will probably keep their hands off of it.  

New Year’s Eve at the Oldies: ‘Last’ Songs for the Last Night of the Year

Happy New Year, everybody.  

Last Night, 1961, The Mar-Keys.

Last Date, 1960, Floyd Cramer. It was bliss while it lasted. You were so in love with her you couldn't see straight. But she didn't feel the same. You shuffle home, enter your lonely apartment, pour yourself a stiff one, and put Floyd Cramer on the box.

Save the Last Dance for Me, 1960, The Drifters.

At Last, Etta James.

Last Thing on My Mind, Doc Watson sings the Tom Paxton tune. A very fine version.

Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream, Simon and Garfunkel. 

Last Call, Dave van Ronk.  "If I'd been drunk when I was born, I'd be ignorant of sorrow."

(Last night I had) A Wonderful Dream, The Majors. The trick is to find in the flesh one of those dream girls. Some of us got lucky.

This night in 1985 was Rick Nelson's last: the Travelin' Man died in a plane crash.  Wikipedia:

Nelson dreaded flying but refused to travel by bus. In May 1985, he decided he needed a private plane and leased a luxurious, fourteen-seat, 1944 Douglas DC-3 that had once belonged to the DuPont family and later to Jerry Lee Lewis. The plane had been plagued by a history of mechanical problems.[104] In one incident, the band was forced to push the plane off the runway after an engine blew, and in another incident, a malfunctioning magneto prevented Nelson from participating in the first Farm Aid concert in Champaign, Illinois.

On December 26, 1985, Nelson and the band left for a three-stop tour of the Southern United States. Following shows in Orlando, Florida, and Guntersville, Alabama, Nelson and band members took off from Guntersville for a New Year's Eve extravaganza in Dallas, Texas.[105] The plane crash-landed northeast of Dallas in De Kalb, Texas, less than two miles from a landing strip, at approximately 5:14 p.m. CST on December 31, 1985, hitting trees as it came to earth. Seven of the nine occupants were killed: Nelson and his companion, Helen Blair; bass guitarist Patrick Woodward, drummer Rick Intveld, keyboardist Andy Chapin, guitarist Bobby Neal, and road manager/soundman Donald Clark Russell. Pilots Ken Ferguson and Brad Rank escaped via cockpit windows, though Ferguson was severely burned.

It's Up to You.

Bonus: Last Chance Harvey.

Last but not least: Auld Lang Syne.

Merry Christmas to All Readers, Old and New . . .

. . . and best wishes for the New Year.  This from a liberal reader:

I've read your blog daily for six years now because I want a rational conservative voice in my life to challenge my own (very opposite) beliefs. You've provided that in spades, and I'm grateful for it.

Would that all liberals were as good-natured and open to challenge. We might then be able to hope for a lessening of tensions in the coming year. But I am no pollyanna: 2021, I predict, will be a year of acrimony to rival the worst years of the '60s.

Some Posts and Ghosts of Christmas Past

'Merry Xmas'

Egyptian Muslims Serve as Human Shields at Coptic Christmas Mass

Socializing as Self-Denial

Merry Scroogemas!

Ebeneezer Scrooge and the Limits of Doxastic Voluntarism

In the Interests of Prandial Harmony

Minimalist and Maximalist Modes of Holiday Impersonality

Of Christograms and Political Correctness

Facebook

That's where the MavPhil political punch-back is these days until such time as I am de-platformed for my quotidian violation of 'community standards.' I will consider your 'friend' request if I can see from your page that you have the Right stuff.

A Facebook Post

Here

I was misinformed. I was told that individual FB posts could be read by people without FB accounts if they were provided with the URL of the post.  Well, click on the link and see what happens. You will see the post for a second or two, sans comments, and then you will be directed to a page that has a fabulous picture of some handsome dude taking a selfie before the Coliseum in Rome.

I fully understand why people hate FB and refuse to sign up, and also why many are leaving for other social media sites.

The assault on free speech by the Left and their party here in the USA, the Democrats, is becoming intolerable. 

A writer at Crisis Magazine opined that conservatives should boycott FB. That makes no sense to me. Better to speak the truth on FB in public posts until we get de-platformed.

…………………………….

UPDATE 7:25 PM.  I tried it again. Click on the link above. If you are quick on the trigger, you will be able to click on 'Comments.'  They will appear.  You will then be sent to the dude on Roman holiday. You should be able to close that window. Now you can read the whole post with the comments.  So I wasn't misinformed  after all. My mistake.  You can read FB posts even if you are not on FB if you have been provided with the URL.  What you can't do is read the whole site.

Alles klar?

 

The Pleasures of the Mountain Bike

What follows is from my first weblog, and is dated 4 May 2004. The photo was taken this morning by Dennis Murray, fellow aficionado of strenuous pursuits.

…………………

Time was, when running was my exercise, the daily bread of my cardiovascular system. But then the injuries came: chondromalacia patellae in both knees, shin splints, plantar fasciitis, you name it. So I took up the bike, and eventually the mountain bike. Now I run just once a week, on Sunday mornings, for about 75 minutes. The other days I either hike or ride the mountain bike, mostly the latter. I like to be on the road before sunrise, and catch old Sol as he rises over the magnificent and mysterious Superstition Mountains. There is nothing like greeting the sun as he greets the mountains, bathing them in the serene light of daybreak. It is an appropriate moment for gratitude, gratitude for another day on which to bang my head against the riddle of existence. Riding into the rising sun, I sometimes recall Nietzsche’s words from Thus Spoke Zarathustra: “O you overrich star, what would you be except for those for whom you shine?”

The beauty of the mountain bike is that you can get off the roads, away from cars and people, and onto trails and jeep tracks. I’d rather dodge rattlesnakes than cars any day. I have even been known to strike out cross-country across open desert. I’ve got kevlar-reinforced tires, with thick tubes, and a strip of plastic betwixt tube and tire as prophylaxis against cactus spines and other impregnators. No need for slime, and no flats for going on two years. My bike is an old Trek 930, a modest mid-range hard-tail – having been called a hard-ass, I suppose this is appropriate – with front-end suspension. As every Thoreauvian knows, one doesn’t have to spend a lot of money to have fun and live well.

Still, nothing in my experience beats running for the endorphin kick. ‘Endorphin’ is a contraction of ‘endogenous morphine.’ The adjective means originating from within, in this case, from within the brain. You know what morphine is. The brain of a body under athletic stress seems to produce these endorphins the existence of which, I understand, is more scientific postulation than verified fact. Endorphins manifest themselves at the level of consciousness in rather delightful sensations. When conditions are auspicious, and I am about 45-50 minutes into a run, I enter a phase wherein I apperceive myself as merely riding in my body as a pure spectator of a pure spectacle. I become a transcendental onlooker, and the world becomes George Santayana’s realm of essence.

“I become a transparent eyeball: I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or parcel of God.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Nature.”)

BVMTBike24Aug2020