Marginalia, no.88

Imagine…a Utopia in which everything grows of its own accord and turkeys fly around ready-roasted.

~ Arthur Schopenhauer, Parerga and Paralipomena

‘In such a place,’ says Art, ‘men would die of boredom or hang themselves.’  But he’s wrong about that, because this heaven really exists and I, for one, will be glad to find myself there come Thursday.  I refer, of course, to Mom’s kitchen on Thanksgiving Day.  The great American secular feast approaches like an annual Brigadoon through the November mist.  The whole splendid chorus of fowl and stuffing, potato and gravy, casserole and cranberry sauce implores us to eat, drink and be merry: Utopia lives for only a day.

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1 Comment

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One response to “Marginalia, no.88

  1. My body gets in the way of enojyment of possible utopias, even if it’s my stomach complaining after Thanksgiving feasts. But you’re right, my thoughts turn toward the past at Grandma’s house today. Being Italian we had to have spaghetti with every meal, even thanksgiving turkey. Schopenhauer probably needed to eat more spaghetti: I think it would have helped his disposition.

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