Twentieth-Century Philosophy: The Analytic Tradition by Morris Weitz

By Morris Weitz

20th-Century Philosophy: The Analytic culture (Readings within the historical past of Philosophy Series)
393 pp. CONTENTS: basic advent; Realism and customary feel; Logical research; Logical Positivism; Conceptual Elucidation; Bibliography; Index.Keywords: PHILOSOPHY

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By Morris Weitz

20th-Century Philosophy: The Analytic culture (Readings within the historical past of Philosophy Series)
393 pp. CONTENTS: basic advent; Realism and customary feel; Logical research; Logical Positivism; Conceptual Elucidation; Bibliography; Index.Keywords: PHILOSOPHY

Show description

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She dragged a hard, wooden chair from against one of the walls and placed it with its back to the fire. She sat down on it facing Oscar. That was part of Meg’s job. It might sound funny, but that is what Meg had to do whenever Oscar came home at nights weary and stupid and listless after a long session of drinking and chasing. She would half strip in that fashion and sit there facing him. Oscar would look at her and before very long, he being a hog and a bit crazy from owning that mountain, the sight of her flesh, which was very white and soft, would coax all his snoring desires from their rat-holes and he would come lunging to his feet like some element who has just been brought back from the dead, a solid sheet of flame with all his appetites barking like dogs from him, hungry for food and Meg and Christ knows what.

It always did as it was told and, just because it did that, would die, before its time, of weakness, like most of the voters who lived in that valley. This horse did not even have savage thoughts about Oscar to warm the inside of its head when living made it icy, so I felt very sorry for that horse. The rain had slackened, sick of itself. The water still came down in stutters from the chute. Wilson helped me to get Oscar out into the yard and we stood him under the falling water. After two minutes of that Oscar was soaked and half awake.

Every way I looked, down, up, sideways, I could see Oscar. He was a big figure, planted there on his mountain. I followed the course of the small, yellow stream that cut into the ravine’s bed and soon I reached the top Terrace 28 where my mother lived. My mother’s house was one of a hundred in a row and it was just like the other ninety-nine. Even the smells were the same, a mixture of cabbage and onion which came from the damp, and another smell that arose from rent that had gone high. Oscar owned a lot of these houses and I loved him no more deeply for that.

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