Comments on: Materialism and Nihilism’s Consequential Union: Notes on Kay Ryan’s "Nothing Ventured"

By: Nihilism: in search of a working definition – AMERIKA

Nihilism: in search of a working definition – AMERIKA — Mon, 09 Feb 2009 23:58:06 +0000

[...] – Michael Gillespie, from “Martin Heidegger” in the History of Political Philosophy 3rd ed. pg. 888-889AK [...]

By: machinepolitick

machinepolitick — Sun, 30 Nov 2008 19:39:20 +0000

Another good article.
You are right in saying that culture is important and seperates us from the lower animals. Nihilism is a ridiculous concept.
I tend to enjoy art and poetry for their quality rather than meaning.
Clearly there is a need for things to have a message as well as being simply pretty. As a political artist, I am submerged in meaning most of the time and need a little pretty in my life. That doesn’t mean I can’t have both at the same time.
Thanks for exposing me to work I wouldn’t seek on my own. I hope to see more in the future.

By: David Sullivan

David Sullivan — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 14:22:42 +0000

If Athens didn’t know Homer, Socrates would have been an impossibility. Without a literary heritage, there is nothing to preserve; progress is baseless, conservatism is an impossibility, civilization unrecognizable from a wolfpack.

Kinda like being up to your butt in Alligators and you forgot that you are just here to clean the tank??;=))

By: Twinkles

Twinkles — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 01:55:00 +0000

Our hearts and minds both tie us to the pack, and keep us separate. It is the intersection of our lives and loves that keep us connected.

Here's the Auden I promised:
Song IX (April 1936)
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows around the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policeman wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.