Pilcher could have made Wayward Pines into a Hegelian utopia of mutual, face-to-face recognition and valuation if only he’d had better PR and solid personnel and materials managers. A few ‘You Are Valued’ posters, a suggestions box, and 1st Amendment rights would’ve been a good start.
Would it be fair to characterize M*A*S*H as the story of the death of Henry Blake and its aftermath among those he served with? A kind of bildungsroman that extends past the actual presence of the protagonist whose life–and the effects of that life–it follows?
I might write more on this.
So, I’ve been listening to some podcasts about the liar’s paradox and I’ve come to understand that the very existence of paradox–at all–is a major conceptual problem for some philosophers. Something must be wrong in how we perceive or cogitate. Yet, I can perceive the very concept of paradox, and could continue to do so even if every specific paradox was logicked out right in front of me as fast as I could think them up. But that truth seems rather easily gotten to, and that tends to be part of the problem; some solutions aren’t acceptable because they’re too easy. The root construction of the social order, life, etc., must be something beautiful and complex, especially if it is capable of coming up with paradox in the first place. But we ourselves quite literally came up with the very conception of paradox through our own brain power, and some of us aren’t so beautiful. Simple is ugly, and The Truth can’t be both dark and ugly. Dark, unknowable, impossible: all equate to ‘unknowable’, and that’s like answering the question with itself.
So the problem of paradox is the problem of paradox’s own existence–a physicality of the universe that falls short of our conceptions. We don’t want to believe that we can outthink the universe that we were born into, at least in some respects. But then, in paradox, in the theory that makes no sense, perhaps we can see a reflection of the stupification we feel when we are present with all the rest of life’s contents that fail to stretch so far as our imaginations.