Subject: Bio #7
Omlor@aol.com
Date: Thu Oct 04 2001 - 07:24:56 GMT
Hey Rocky, watch me pull an autobiography out of my hat...
Again?
Nothin' up my sleeve....
I have never known how to tell a story.
And since I love nothing better than remembering and Memory itself --
Mnemosyne -- I have always felt this inability as a sad infirmity. Why am I
denied narration? Why have I not received this gift? Why have I never
received it from Mnemosyne, *tes ton Mouson metros*, the mother of all muses,
as Socrates recalls in the*Theaetetus*? The gift of Mnemosyne, Socrates
insists, is like the wax in which all that we wish to guard in our memory is
engraved in relief so that it may leave a mark, like that of rings, bands, or
seals. We preserve our memory and our knowledge of them; we can then speak of
them and do them justice, as long as their image remains legible.
But what happens when the lover of Mnemosyne has not received the gift
of narration? When he doesn't know how to tell a story? When it is
precisely because he keeps the memory that he loses the narrative?
Whoops. Great hat, but it was only a gift.
Now here's something we hope you'll *really* like...
--John
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