Despite my trade, C believes, I have no imagination. This came up because I admitted I don’t enjoy paradoxes (except my own ones deep down in the psyche etc etc). I don’t enjoy paradoxes because, despite apparent evidence to the contrary, I am quite a pragmatic person. Also, all the pre-quantum ones seem cheap.
Take hares. I get The White Hare, it’s romance. I get The Granemore Hare, it’s death. I get The Hare & the Tortoise, it’s advice. But I don’t get Achilles & the Hare, it’s a geek thing. In the world, hares are caught, & eaten; & if they aren’t it isn’t because the gap between them & their pursuer always remains fractionally open. It’s because Achilles fell over. I don’t care about paradoxes, & neither does the world, which just goes on working & thereby sustains all this parasitic babble of attempts to describe it.
C believes I have no sense of humour, either. What I don’t get most just now is why the title of this book is Lewis Carroll in Numberland, when it should so obviously have been called Carroll in Numberland. Maybe Charles Dodgson could have posed that as an entertaining mathematical puzzle.