…is the subject of the book Scepticism, Inc. by Bo Fowler. Thanks to Rigmor for putting me on to this wicked idea. Of late I have been through my own crisis of scepticism so I can empathise with the concept of the folly of placing metaphysical bets. The book is reviewed as a sort of Nietzsche primer for beginners. The betting shop is set up in an old church. Much of what we do in life involves us in taking bets on complicated probabilities as to how events will turn out. Recently I took one massive bet of the spirit and lost. By confusing my trusted beliefs with reality I was brought down to earth with a bump, and now I’m looking for the sceptic’s exit. Not for a long time have I felt so depressed. Five years of living in Amsterdam have left their mark on me. That spiritual supermarket never allows you to get depressed as it’s far too superficial. Wales is too intense for me. Too many memories obscure the present and my unconscious is throwing up all the useless garbage of the past along with some of my most primal fears and imprints. It all leads me to conclude that we live in our own spiritual bubble and when that pops open it can be pretty scary. Dylan Thomas wrote about Llareggub and became an alchoholic in New York City to get away from his Welsh tristesse.
“Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.”
wrote the great Welsh bard, who once drank 18 straight whiskies in a bar in New York. I know just how he feels and hope that they don’t kill any Buddhist monks in Burma. I could never be a monk. I love too easily from my own raging moon. Adieu to the hills of remorse.
After the first draft of this post events took an interesting turn. The raging moon answered back in a soft voice that said be not despondent. The mystery will unfold.