Being sick the last half of this past week has taken my aspirations of finishing What Is Philosophy? from leaps and bounds down to very tiny incremental squirms. Squirms in which I slowly chip away at the tunnel through the mountain of this book (being nowhere close to finishing) or scratch away at the walls of my cell like the Count of Monte Christo. I fear for the rate of my progress. Yet it took Dantés 14 years to break out of Château d'If. I just keep hearing Ulmer's words in my head, "Don't try to understand the reading, just read...and take notes!" Ulmer is my Abbé Faria, educating me as I try to make my way out of this philosophical hell hole.
Onward then.
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