Marx-Engels on Hangovers as Evidence of Dialectical Process

I must admit that I’ve never expected to find humor in ‘The Collected Works of Marx and Engels’; but … never say never.

In a discussion on dialectic transformation of quantity into quality, V. Afanasyev observed that “quantity and quality are interconnected; in the process of development imperceptible, gradual quantitative changes pass into basic, qualitative changes.  This transformation takes form of the leap.  This is the essence of dialectical law of the passage of quantitative into qualitative changes.”   Marxist Philosophy, by Victor Afanasyev, Moscow: Foreign Languages Publishing House, 3^rd Ed. 1968, p. 113.

Interestingly, Friedrich Engels offers a great example in “Dialectics of Nature.”  Marx-Engels Collected Works, Vol. 25, New York: International Publishers, 1987.

The law of the transformation of quantity into quality and vice versa… in nature, in a manner exactly fixed for each individual case, qualitative changes can only occur by the quantitative addition or quantitative subtraction of matter or motion (so-called energy.)”  Id., p. 367.

The sphere … in which the law of nature discovered by Hegel celebrates its most important triumphs is that of chemistry.  Chemistry can be termed the science of the qualitative changes of bodies as a result of changes quantitative composition. Id., p. 359

What quantitative difference can be caused by the quantitative addition of C₃H₆ is taught by the experience if consume ethyl alcohol, C₂H₆O, in any drinkable form without addition of other alcohols, and on another occasion take the same ethyl alcohol but with a slight addition of amyl alcohol, C₅H₁₂O, which forms the main constituent of the abominable fused oil.  One’s head will certainly be aware of it the next morning, much to its detriment; so that one could even say that the intoxication, and the subsequent “morning after” feeling, is also quantity transformed into quality, on the one hand of ethyl alcohol and on the other hand of this added C₃H₆.”  Id., p. 360

  

This confirms that the experience of Soviet communism was theoretically correct: The intermediate step between socialism and communism is alcoholism, a qualitative change [at least in theory]. 

As a practical matter, I suppose that it depends on what you drink.  I offer, purely in a spirit of scientific curiosity, a bottle of Chivas Regal to that end.

By:  Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name
        Бездомный с ноутбуком, это мое имя

My Name

I guess you are kind of curious as to who I am, but I am one of those who do not have a regular name. My name depends on you. Just call me whatever is in your mind.

If you are thinking about something that happened a long time ago: Somebody asked you a question and you did not know the answer.
That is my name.
Perhaps it was raining very hard.
That is my name.
Or somebody wanted you to do something. You did it. Then they told you what you did was wrong—“Sorry for the mistake,””—and you had to do something else.
That is my name.
Perhaps it was a game that you played when you were a child or something that came idly into your mind when you were old and sitting in a chair near the window.
That is my name.
Or you walked someplace. There were flowers all around.
That is my name.
Perhaps you stared into a river. There was somebody near you who loved you. They were about to touch you. You could feel this before it happened. Then it happened.
That is my name.
Or you heard someone calling from a great distance. Their voice was almost an echo.
That is my name.
Perhaps you were lying in bed, almost ready to go to sleep and you laughed at something, a joke unto yourself, a good way to end the day.
That is my name.
Or you were eating something good and for a second forgot what you were eating, but still went on, knowing it was good.
That is my name.
Perhaps it was around midnight and the fire tolled like a bell inside the stove
That is my name.
Or you felt bad when she said that thing to you. She could have told it to someone else: Somebody who was more familiar with her problems.
That is my name.
Perhaps the trout swam in the pool but the river was only eight inches wide and the moon shone on IDEATH and the watermelon fields glowed out of proportion, dark and the moon seemed to rise from every plant.
That is my name.
And I wish Margaret would leave me alone.

Composed by Richard Brautigan; copied, pasted and posted, with love, of course, by Homeless with a Laptop, That is my name.

One goal

 Watching the Chile versus Mexico game reinforced my belief that you should never give up; NEVER.  After the third Chilean goal, the Mexican team basically gave up; and lost 7-0. 

Why should a team that is losing by a large margin keep playing?  Here’s one reason.

While in the Air Force, I regularly played soccer for my units’ teams.  During the winter, we played indoor soccer; which is a bit faster than regular soccer.   One time, we were playing against a really good team.   By the end of the first half, we were down 5-0.  Now, I don’t like losing at all… I was really frustrated that our team couldn’t see to get it together.

At the start of the second half, as we put the ball in play I fired a rocket; it went in.  5-1… the players on the other team started to get angry at each other because the defense didn’t stop the shot… hope rekindled???   We went to lose the game by 9-1…

At the end of the game, I was gloomy… then the goalkeeper from the other team came over and said to me:  “Over 8 games I have not allowed a single goal… Yet I never saw the ball from your shot…”  I laughed sympathetically, patted him on the back and parted our separate ways.

Despite our loss we did manage to dent the other team… The goalkeeper certainly thought so, and though we lost yet we managed to earn some respect from them.

We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are...

Ulysses

It little profits that an idle king,

By this still hearth, among these barren crags,

Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole

Unequal laws unto a savage race,

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink

Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd

Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those

That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;

For always roaming with a hungry heart

Much have I seen and known; cities of men

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;

And drunk delight of battle with my peers,

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'

Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades

For ever and forever when I move.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!

As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life

Were all too little, and of one to me

Little remains: but every hour is saved

From that eternal silence, something more,

A bringer of new things; and vile it were

For some three suns to store and hoard myself,

And this gray spirit yearning in desire

To follow knowledge like a sinking star,

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

         This is my son, mine own Telemachus,

To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—

Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil

This labour, by slow prudence to make mild

A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees

Subdue them to the useful and the good.

Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere

Of common duties, decent not to fail

In offices of tenderness, and pay

Meet adoration to my household gods,

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

         There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,

Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—

That ever with a frolic welcome took

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed

Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;

Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,

'T is not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

 

By:  Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Copied, Pasted and Loved by:  Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name

One Muslim

Muslims... there's all kinds of postings out there in the 'la la land' of the internet. I don't offer any comments or opinions; the postings speak for themselves.  But I share one personal experience with Muslims.

First, I will admit that I don't know anything about Islam.  Yes, I have read a book or two but I cannot feel or empathize with the emotions associated with deeply held religious views and customs.  Second, with one exception, I personally don't know any Muslims other than casual business acquaintances.  For example, while in the military over the years I met various officers from Muslim countries, and have had a couple of Muslim clients.  However, I never got to know any of them personally.  This is not because of any reserve on my part; it's just more environmental.  In my life, I have not deal with many Muslims where I've lived and worked.

Having said this, the only Muslim that I know 'well' is a Pakistani TV personality with whom I have been friends close to 20 years now; yet we have never met in person.  In any case, we grew close over the years, shared lots of laughs & dreams electronically, and she has been a good confidant and friend.  She introduced me to William Carlos Williams and so much more.  Thank you, Al Gore, for inventing the internet.

Earlier this year, she posted in her Facebook page the following: 

"Got mugged at gun point at 10:30 tonight parked near OPTP, Boat Basin. The jerk took my wedding and anniversary rings and some cash. So easy to carry guns and commit crime in public places despite an abundance of police and rangers patrolling almost everywhere.

Driving back home, holding my husband's hand I felt no remorse for losing the things, only gratitude which such incidents awaken and make us cherish life and relationships.

A part of me even felt sorry for the mugger...He also has only one life to live...what a waste to live it spreading terror and bad feelings...what a bad choice of life experiences he has opted for. May we all find peace within and around us. Amen."

I posted:

"Sorry about your mugging"

"wanted to say that only you could feel sorry for a mugger"

She responded:

"I actually felt sorry for him. I looked into his eyes and there was just anger and fear and greed. Such a waste of life. I prayed for him and all such people before I went to sleep."

I could only smile... 

***

As I said earlier, I don't know any Muslims other than her.  Yes, there are lots of stories in social media, etc.  But this is the one Muslim I know; and the world is a better place because of people like her.

For:  Abida
By:  Homeless with a Laptop, That is My Name