Soliloquy

by Kooper Wilson:

To be long-winded, utterly profuse, to draw out overly-detailed descriptions of things far beyond the limited scope of even the most eager attention, to be pedantic and give contentious disputation that stuns the listener into a daze like a mad satyr, to be contemptibly prolix, moreover, always to stretch the conversation into the late hours of night and talk until the cows come home, to insist upon needless jargon, to place words above people, to sophistically mingle terms so as to confuse the average person, to insidiously insert inverted innocuous phrases that insinuate themselves inside innocent imbeciles’ imaginations, to wax poetic and wane impiously, to make much out of nothing, a mountain out of a molehill, so to speak, to talk past and over the heads of good men and women, to disregard propriety and disclose stolen information, to steal away someone’s time with empty rhetoric, to list out every meaningless fact that bears no weight on present issues, to fail to be brief and to the point, to be circuitous and belabor the truth, to manage to spend all of one’s energy to say nothing of import, but to build a wall of text that nobody can climb (to protect what?), furthermore, to be redundant and repeat oneself in only slightly different ways, to impose oneself through rude and unwarranted soliloquies, to give no pause to thought but rather ceaselessly spin out crosshatched sentences like silky spider webs, to endlessly weave a tale that only leads into an infinite labyrinth of exhaustion and delirium, to rag on like a stubborn mule, to artlessly mix common turns of phrase with impenetrable metaphors that hinder the understanding, in other words, to be a philosopher; could all this be simply disregarded as a massive error, or do we each already have some share in the blame and guilt which inspire us to hide our eyes and avert our gaze towards a less offensive and more indirect means of contemplation, that which quickens and vivifies us, strengthens our spirit, makes us bend and stretch our minds in healthier ways, gives us to drink from the purest springs of sublimity, pulls us into an ethereal orbit from which every form of life appears divine, lets everything be as it is and induces us to meet each object and soul with due respect and praise them with immortal verse, affirms the whole star-speckled universe in all its multifarious and wonderful qualities, obtains to the clearest image of the world, puts everything into harmony and reconciles even the harshest opposition, unifies all manner of mundane and trivial data into priceless artifacts that testify to a superessential meaning that transcends space and time, masterfully extends its influence over all possibilities and draws each one out according to a well-made plan, mixes and blends all the colors of worldly experience into evermore vibrant and exuberant spectacles of shimmering virtues which shine for all to see, that is to say, a form of thought that comprehends and constitutes the true order of things as they are meant to be, or, instead, would this effort turn out to be just as pointless as that of the barking noises of the lover of wisdom, and only consist of shadows dancing on the wall of a cave?

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