Three phones rang. A duplicate wrist radio in his desk drawer buzzed like a wounded grasshopper. The intercom flashed a pink light and click-clicked. Three phones rang. The drawer buzzed. Music blew in through the open door. The psychiatrist, humming quietly, fitted the new wrist radio to his wrist, flipped the intercom, talked a moment, picked up one telephone, talked, picked up another telephone, talked, picked up the third telephone, talked, touched the wrist-radio button, talked calmly and quietly, his face cool and serene, in the middle of the music and the lights flashing, the two phones ringing again, and his hands moving, and his wrist radio buzzing, and the intercoms talking, and voices speaking from the ceiling. And he went on quietly this way through the remainder of a cool, air-conditioned, and long afternoon; telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio..."-Ray Bradbury, "The Murderer" (1953)
in my experience, texting is the preferred method of communication between FB's, flings, what have you. if i was in this situation and the guy CALLED me, i'd feel incredibly awkward. texting is more nonconfrontational.posted by zenon at 8:55 PM on January 25, 2009
Is it the source of the Nile, or the Niger, or the Mississippi, or a Northwest Passage around this continent, that we would find? Are these the problems which most concern mankind? Is Franklin the only man who is lost, that his wife should be so earnest to find him? Does Mr. Grinnell know where he himself is? Be rather the Mungo Park, the Lewis and Clark and Frobisher, of your own streams and oceans; explore your own higher latitudes — with shiploads of preserved meats to support you, if they be necessary; and pile the empty cans sky-high for a sign. Were preserved meats invented to preserve meat merely? Nay, be a Columbus to whole new continents and worlds within you, opening new channels, not of trade, but of thought. Every man is the lord of a realm beside which the earthly empire of the Czar is but a petty state, a hummock left by the ice. Yet some can be patriotic who have no self-respect, and sacrifice the greater to the less. They love the soil which makes their graves, but have no sympathy with the spirit which may still animate their clay. Patriotism is a maggot in their heads.What was the meaning of that South-Sea Exploring Expedition, with all its parade and expense, but an indirect recognition of the fact that there are continents and seas in the moral world to which every man is an isthmus or an inlet, yet unexplored by him, but that it is easier to sail many thousand miles through cold and storm and cannibals, in a government ship, with five hundred men and boys to assist one, than it is to explore the private sea, the Atlantic and Pacific Ocean of one's being alone.The point isn't that he went to the woods. The woods were just a place like any other. He could have sat in the middle of Union Square. If you read him expecting him to be Robinson Crusoe, building a hut in the trackless wilderness with nary a soul around, you're missing the point. He's in New England, he knows very well that there are people within five miles (or, in his case, less) in any direction. The woods just happened to be a good place for him to "transact some business," as he says in the beginning--the business of figuring out what in his life belonged to him, and what to the society around him. Did he achieve perfect isolation, like a monk? No, and he never claimed to want it. Solitude is for him not a physical state, but a moral and spiritual one; although the former aspect might help to cultivate the latter ones, it's the least important one of the three. If you think going to town every day made him a hypocrite, you've understood nothing of his message.
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posted by gman at 6:19 PM on January 25, 2009 [6 favorites]