You have to check in periodically with a writer like DC Smith, or else he withdraws from the world and starts getting all mad-scientisty. It happens all the time but still, not even those closest to him could have foreseen this. There had been several previous incidents that indicated his judgment had been affected by the increasing amount of time he was spending in isolation, producing involved and complex work and watching it mount up on his desk unread. It was obvious that something would have to give sooner or later, but nobody ever suspected that DC Smith would fictionalize Descartes. The original was bad enough, but whereas the real Descartes just taunted himself in seclusion with notions that posed a merely theoretical threat to the security of his smugly pleasant existence and perceptions; the fictional Descartes skipped over inventing algebra, dabbling in physics and even learning courtroom etiquette, because the parameters DC set for his nature determined that he must confront a priori one insurmountable conclusion; that he was in fact, not real and, far from amusing himself with the idea, this Descartes exists (or doesn’t) in an attention deficit frenzy, serially exhausting topics for consideration or discussion then latching onto the next one to become immediately available, in order to keep himself distracted from the axiomatic declaration that echoes from the core of his essentially analytical and self-obsessed character, “I’m not really thinking, therefore I really am not.” The resultant monstrosity is intensely nervous and trite. What’s worse? DC got bored and irritated with his creation’s constant vacuous prattle, and set him loose on the era dominated by a medium in which perpetuation of dialectic that might once have been called Philosophy, has been subsumed under the broader definitions of vulgar words like “blogging.”
The resultant rationalist abomination has written this letter
of introduction from the small, non-descript room the author made-up for
him in Newark.