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Showing posts from February, 2005

Reading, Writing, Thinking: Just Selfish Means of Survival?

The other day I was thinking to myself in one of my many imagined conversations with someone (could be anyone, really; a colleague, the wooden head, my alter ego, whomever or whatever), that the act of reading is an act of creativity, almost brutal in some sense, and, depending on how practiced you are, extremely rewarding if not altogether mentally exhausting—which lead me to consider how all of this (reading, writing, abstract thinking, etc.) could simply be a selfish means of survival for our precarious little neurons.

The little devil (the devil's advocate, as it were) who speaks up in defiance whenever I plead my cases, which is to say make my mental arguments (I need to really watch myself closely these days because sometimes I can be seen almost talking to myself as my lips move while my eyes just sort of waggle off into space without focus), in this case asks me how can reading be a creative act? You just sit there. Well, of course you just sit there, I retort, otherwise y…