Idling on from yesterday - last bit  

goodethymes 63M
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11/5/2005 3:27 pm

Last Read:
3/5/2006 9:27 pm

Idling on from yesterday - last bit

'Idleness,' said Anthony, 'according to Chesterfield’s old saying, is only the refuge of weak minds, and the holiday of fools.'

'Quotation is the refuge of weak minds,' I replied.

We had run out of Chardonnay and were now drinking the rich red liquid from my precious stocks of old port. I filled his glass with port.

'Then your mind is the weakest in town,' Anthony retorted.

'Of course,' I said casually. 'But don't expect me to take Chesterfield's word for it. He was wrong. His claim is utterly false.'

I stopped speaking for a moment and attempted find the cork for the port bottle.

'The words may be Chesterfields,' replied Anthony, 'but the sentiment is mine.'

Anthony found the cork and passed it to me.
'And unoriginal sentiments are the holidays of fools,' I said. 'Idleness, on the other hand, is the citadel of strong minds and the fortress of vigorous intellects.'

I sipped some more port.

'When we have nothing to do,' I continued, 'we cannot avoid thinking about things. When we are idle, our minds leap into action.'

'Well that doesn't help me. Promotion interviews begin tomorrow, and I still don't know anything,' complained Anthony.

'Don't worry,' I said reassuringly. 'Knowledge is overrated.'

'But surely I need to know something?

'You can never rely on knowledge,' I replied. ‘It is something you deliberately look for and so gained only through hard work. Imagination, on the other hand, is the product of idleness and so more important.'

'I can't rely on imagination alone.'

'You must!' I replied as I consumed another cracker.

'Anthony, your imagination roams free without restraint. It is active but doesn’t work. The grinding search for knowledge destroys your powers of imagination. Your creative faculties become buried under a dusty pile of old facts. Knowledge is binding while the imagination is liberating.'

'I see your point. I suppose,' said Anthony. He looked unconvinced.

'Imagination, you see, produces originality,' I continued, 'but knowledge is simply the recycling of other people's tired old ideas.'

'And yet,' Anthony protested, 'for the last three years you've consistently recycled my stories while pretending, extremely convincingly I might add, that they are your original work.'

'QED Anthony. Now you can see why I rely on my powers of imagination,' I remarked nonchalantly.

I waited for a reply, but Anthony seemed to have dozed off in his chair. I suppose it must have been the port.


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