Master Wilde might have written those lines as satire, but that’s how truth is dispensed to the herd; what Mistress Poppins called the spoonful of sugar that helps the medicine go down. Philosophy means the love of thought, we’re told, but loving thought is like loving war. No one who knows it could ever love it. The thing one destroys by thinking is the very fabric of one’s dreamstate reality — hardly a thing to be loved.
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