Constancy

I've always appreciated change, the relentless force that pushes life onward and outward in all directions and deviations across the mercurial pattern of days. But the truly valuable things are those that endure, insufferably, in a slow and stately manner the ebb and flow of every whim and inconsistency — the threads that remain unbroken, the roots that dig deeper with time into the impoverished soil of modern living, and that bind together with an unaccountable firmness what is effete and inebriated, like the grasp of God's hand.

Proslogium

The Ontological Proof
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St. Anselm

Truly there is a God, although the fool has said in his heart, There is no God.

AND so, Lord, do you, who do give understanding to faith, give me, so far as you knowest it to be profitable, to understand that you are as we believe; and that you are that which we believe. And indeed, we believe that you are a being than which nothing greater can be conceived. Or is there no such nature, since the fool has said in his heart, there is no God? (Psalms xiv. 1). But, at any rate, this very fool, when he hears of this being of which I speak—a being than which nothing greater can be conceived—understands what be hears, and what he understands is in his understanding; although he does not understand it to exist.

For, it is one thing for an object to be in the understanding, and another to understand that the object exists. When a painter first conceives of what he will afterwards perform, he has it in his understanding, but be does not yet understand it to be, because he has not yet performed it. But after he has made the painting, be both has it in his understanding, and he understands that it exists, because he has made it.

Hence, even the fool is convinced that something exists in the understanding, at least, than which nothing greater can be conceived. For, when he hears of this, he understands it. And whatever is understood, exists in the understanding. And assuredly that, than which nothing greater can be conceived, cannot exist in the understanding alone. For, suppose it exists in the understanding alone: then it can be conceived to exist in reality; which is greater.

Therefore, if that, than which nothing greater can be conceived, exists in the understanding alone, the very being, than which nothing greater can be conceived, is one, than which a greater can be conceived. But obviously this is impossible. Hence, there is doubt that there exists a being, than which nothing greater can be conceived, and it exists both in the understanding and in reality.

AND it assuredly exists so truly, that it cannot be conceived not to exist. For, it is possible to conceive of a being which cannot be conceived not to exist; and this is greater than one which can be conceived not to exist. Hence, if that, than which nothing greater can be conceived, can be conceived not to exist, it is not that, than which nothing greater can be conceived. But this is an irreconcilable contradiction. There is, then, so truly a being than which nothing greater can be conceived to exist, that it cannot even be conceived not to exist; and this being you are, O Lord, our God.

So truly, therefore, do you exist, O Lord, my God, that you can not be conceived not to exist; and rightly. For, if a mind could conceive of a being better than you, the creature would rise above the Creator; and this is most absurd. And, indeed, whatever else there is, except you alone, can be conceived not to exist. To you alone, therefore, it belongs to exist more truly than all other beings, and hence in a higher degree than all others. For, whatever else exists does not exist so truly, and hence in a less degree it belongs to it to exist. Why, then, has the fool said in his heart, there is no God (Psalms xiv. 1), since it is so evident, to a rational mind, that you do exist in the highest degree of all? Why, except that he is dull and a fool?

Perplexity

Recent events have made me feel that my command of language is slowly slipping away, and I feel a creeping suspicion that this really is the case. I vaguely remember Wittgenstein’s description of language as a net, and his thesis that the reason for all our philosophical quandaries and conundrums is our imperfect use of the language, or the imperfections of the language itself, as his analogised “net of language” becomes increasingly knotted and convoluted. And perhaps what may be gathered as a corollary of this theory is that our command and use of language is important in ways far more significant than how effectively we are able to communicate with others; it also determines and restricts how well we are able to describe, to comprehend and understand the world to and for ourselves. If this really is so, then what happens when one’s command of language truly begins to deteriorate, when the pieces of rope that constitute the net itself begin to fray and fall away—does this mean that one’s understanding and knowledge of the world is correspondingly diminished? When the shape and sound of familiar words become the only things well-defined about them, and the reins of long sentences slip impetuously from the grasp of my pen, the world becomes a little more inscrutable, each book a little more unfathomable, and my mood far bleaker.