Cuban Celine and socks

I have nothing but the utmost contempt for Kant, and so should you. He was foolish enough to trust entirely in one kind of reasoning alone, and verbose enough to convince many other smart people that he was right. Benighted fool, that lousy philosopher Kant, curse of the thinking class.

May you burn in hell forever, Immanuel, you obsessive-compulsive pedant, or find yourself in heaven, right next to Mel Blanc and the airport guy who laughed when he peered inside my underwear. And may you be eternally rid of the double set of garters that you wore on your precisely timed walks around Koenigsberg every afternoon, those jaunts that were a more accurate reckoning of the hour and minute than that of any clock in your grey Hanseatic town. You need not fear that your hose will slither down around your ankles in the afterlife, dear Immanuel, as you discuss the Categorical Imperative with Mel and Airport Guy. Or as you ponder the ding-an-sich and dissect Vernunft in a million useless ways with your eternally doltish pupils. Socks and philosophy are even more useless in heaven than in the tropics.

I found that out early in life …

– Carlos Eire, Waiting for Snow in Havana, pp. 92-93

The white ectoplasmic socks which Francis Bacon became so interested in as they materialised and issued from the nose, mouth or ears of the receptive medium. Receptive to spiritual hosiery, that is.