I’m reading this a bit harder now, resistant to its all-too-easy message. I am questioning the logic, as if it is twisted to produce rather than by strict deduction. I need go back–or simply be more cautious in the forward reading–and pay more attention to those qualms of doubt.
In my mind I realize the implications, and also that I need not accept these words of Boethius. In my mind, I recall my stubborn inability to assume, but rather take the mark of incorrect: Assume that all redheads are bad-tempered; Jane is a redhead; therefore, Jane is bad-tempered.
Every fiber of my being shouts NO!
Maybe just my inability to take direction, but tendency instead to ramble, stumble through this lifetime trying to find my own. I seek, I think, unhappiness or rather, exquisite happiness to be proven to exist.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology