@Lightwizard,
Quote:The troll who identified everyone else on the thread as a troll is again trying to play moderator. What an ass.
I've been addressing the subject of challenges to the teaching of evolution and you keep raising challenges, in very truncated form, i.e. blurts, to teaching religion and the activities of some headbanger in any out of the way place you can dredge up in your search for comfort that your position is anything other than a load of half-baked, half puritan, illiterate bullshit in the service of propping up some justification or other for slipping out from under the lid of Christian morality in one or more of its aspects probably related to the rumpy-pumpy business at moments of high excitement.
You are too thrummy, un-cool, to suggest any other explanation. You argue like the standard issue Big Girl's Blouse. I've been called as ass, and a silly ass, by better lookers than you Wiz.
It's obvious that you are emotionally engaged whereas I am simply advising my fellow citizens in the Western World to not be too easily swayed by twaddle without ascertaining what the result will be for young men of the future, with whom I sympathise, who will be born after I have departed.
Rider Haggard said that writing for the future lads was the only respectable way to write. Proper intellectuals wouldn't be caught dead writing about their own emotions assuming they have any apart from those that inspired The Pub With No Beer song. . A doubtful proposition. They have bigger fish to fry.
One only need compare a page of Darwin to that of one of Veblen's to know which of them had their emotions flapping on the washing line in the front yard. There's a Homeric tone to Veblen which is absent from Darwin. Homer's tales are campfire tales for the boys. Soon to be men. Listening to them was voluntary and thus they had to be enthralling what with the "soon to be women" running loose in the bushes, and, at the same time prepare them for their manhood by teaching them to value certain things and to despise others by a very mysterious process which some call art. Arty-farty types usually. All good story-tellers do that.
And I could have sat and listened to Thorstein's low, droll monotonous droning all night long if he talked on a bar stool like he writes. Same with Proust. They are my sort of evolutionists. That Herman Melville--he's another. There's a lot--pretty much all famous. Mr Holly in Sir Henry's sequel to She Who Must Be Obeyed--Ayesha. Those conservatives who voted for Mrs Thatcher had obviously never read that.
The nuttiest so far is Mr Joyce. By some distance. That's why American institutions of the Higher Research Fellowship bids taxpayer $$$$$s, so you can work out your own contribution if you fancy, theoretically anyway, for scraps of paper on which he wrote stray thoughts when sat in a Euro-cafe with Balkan garlic millionaires drinking White Lightning. He didn't want a bronze bust in Dublin's main library. He wanted to create an industry. A memorial no dust could settle on. Better than selling an old bridge eh? No cranes required for scraps of paper. Phew!!
Viewers here are quite capable of deciding which of us is trolling without your guidance counselling.