The book details, amongst other things, Feyerabend's youth in Nazi -controlled Vienna , his military service, notorious academic career, and his multiple romantic conquests. Feyerabend barely managed to finish writing the book, lying in a hospital bed with an inoperable brain tumor and the left side of his body paralyzed, and he died shortly before it was released. It is one of Feyerabend's best-known works. Feyerabend discloses that he did not keep any careful records of his life and destroyed much of the documentation autobiographers usually preserve, including a family album discarded "to make room for what I then thought were more important books", and correspondences "even from Nobel Prize winners". The book relies on Feyerabends's own memory as well as the various stray sources that he did manage to keep. His personal and intellectual experiences and his romantic and artistic adventures comprise roughly half the book.
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By Mike Holderness. I READ the latter, more philosophical half of this book in front of The Grifters, a movie about con artists who get conned.
The man demands a response. And the response he gets from me is as closely related to the plot development of entertainment as it is to formal philosophy. When that person discovers, while writing the final chapter, that he has an inoperable brain tumour, the dramatic tension positively jangles. Will it be an apologia, a self-justification, a clarification, or a mea culpa? It is all the above, but first and foremost it is the story of a man baffled by the sometimes vitriolic response to his philosophical enquiry.
If this were so — and the hard science of cognitive psychology does not seem to refute it — science would simply be a way of telling a story about the world — one with very special narrative rules, far more subtle than those for a sonnet or a thriller. Earlier this year Robert L. Do you detect a note of panic here? The legal process and ethical journalism are somewhat less so. The unsatisfactory debate over DNA evidence in courts illustrates the mutual incomprehension between these three genres.
This might allow us, for example, to deal with the question of the beauty of theories — an important but apparently embarrassing subject which gains a mention in New Scientist less than twice a year.
It could provide a narrative structure or methodology for stories and theories which scientists and philosophers could develop jointly. It might even be possible to begin to bridge C. For this to happen, scientists would have to make much more effort to explain what science is.
Without a debate across such divides, responses to provocateurs like Feyerabend inevitably get personalised. Killing Time is a strange narrative. On the surface, it is deeply unsatisfactory as biography.
There are no dates to speak of; characters appear at random and unindexed, identified only by first name. But having read it, I like the man at least the man who left Austria. I like the insouciance of his arrogance as much as anything, and his determination to question everything, including this. In part, he has written a love story, whose central character is a man who, rendered impotent by a gunshot when retreating before the Red Army, seems to have had dozens of affairs, and who terminated them all for fear of being confined — until he met, aged over 50, Grazia Borrini.
In the narrative this man made for his life, consistency is not a major theme. He was similarly disengaged from the arrival of the Nazis, we are told, and throughout his military service. He kept very few papers, he says; the cynical journalist must wonder what was in the talks that have not survived. But immediately after this, he recaps an argument, clearly still painful, with Hilary Rose. Anyone who adopts such a position must be addicted to living dangerously.
Such people have their value — as performance artists at the least. Feyerabend deserves appreciation for his performances, which so effectively raise these arguments about truth, if not for his conclusions. Trending Latest Video Free.
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