"It's a bird... It's a plane... It's Superman!" exclaims the child "Your generation is just like mine" comments the grandfather The great Samsara turns the proverbial blanket of snow hardens metaphiers and metaphrands - the protons in the nucleus of our knowledge transmitted from father to son from life to life, permeate all "Daddy, what is that??" - the infantile excitement of curiosity "It's Drosophila Melanogaster" - an olive branch, from the Tree of Lies "The majority" opines D.H. Lawrence "should never learn to read" - they'd be spared the falsities of those who learned to write But he romanticises the illiterate - equally veiled by his illusion "We're never going to see our way out like this!" worries the young thinker contemplating the progressive, continuous refinement of our enormous taxonomies - his thoughts neatly boxed in somewhere between Nietzsche's and the Vedic authors' of the Upanishads Indeed, circumfixing the truth on a frame of prevarications hardly seems like a path to anything but perdition But isn't that a bit like the ancient sport of proper grammar? 18-II-2012