A severe empiricist reveals his deepest longings.
(Page 3 of 3)
Did you notice that unspeakable chill in your deepest heart at those last words?
Um, no. Should I try again?
I guess I just have no patience with this stuff. I try to behave well, according to my nature (a product of Nature) and acquired habits. I am not aware of having had any existence before my birth, and do not expect to have any after my death. It’s an odd business, all right, being alive; but the most parsimonious account of it is the one offered by a Russian novelist: a crack of light between two eternities of darkness. The rest is tales we make up for our comfort.
I’ll hedge my bets and add this, though. If there is a heaven, and if the admission standards are low enough that I can get in, I hope it will be a place where I never have to read anything as boring, self-referential, derivative (of guess-who), clogged with misplaced superlatives, and devoid of interest or narrative or wit or empirical observation as Peter Kreeft’s Heaven.
A man of faith in a godless age is hitting Americans where it hurts.
Mr. and Mrs. American Spectator Reader, let P.J. O’Rourke talk sense to your kids.
In Britain, defending your property can get you life.
It won’t take long for conservatives to scratch this presidential wannabe off their 2008 scorecard.
Was the President done in by the economy, or by the politics of the economy?
H/T to National Review Online