a little outburst

It's like trying to play chess on a round board with round squares, where the pawns yawn and the bishops ride tiny motor scooters. It's getting nowhere and is beside the point!

That's my impression of rational, critical thinking.

Reality does not want to be probed by analysts or stuffed full of boring German and French categories. It has no freaking idea what it is and is okay with that. So why -- those who think without knowing what consciousness is -- pronounce upon it? Reality is especially annoyed by the arrogance of Zen masters and Christian monks.

Beer, the awfulness of polka, spicy food, nightmares, kissing, laughing, weeping! Reality approves. It also likes poems. It gets a quiet satisfaction from being turned into poems that have astoundingly subtle metaphors and that move with a perplexed-austere rhythm.

(Having said that, I still do occasionally enjoy reading some German and French philosophy. But I read it more as something quasi-artistic than a something that knows something.)