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I still admire writers who can open an essay on Heidegger with a snippet of conversation overheard at the hairdresser, but I haven’t yet mastered the knack.
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There sits a donkey before an open book, held between his forehooves in such a way that we can clearly see the pages. It is a family tree of sorts, with eight rows of seventeen standing donkeys.
A friend of mine likes to say that the moon landing was real, but dumb. On astronautical tokenism.
No one would have understood both the sentiment and the absurdity more keenly than Marx himself, whose face has adorned real currencies in more countries than anyone else’s, with the possible exception of Elizabeth II.