Ben the Philosopher

It would, of course, be wittier if I didn't succumb to my prediction and write this, but, having none of my balls land in the vicinity of any better ideas, I shall do it anyway.

When Ben states that he isn't, in fact, a philosopher, he is merely philosophising on the uselessness, philosophically, of philosophy, and, in particular, the existence of philosophy as a distinct practice when in fact it's merely thinking. And everybody, as Harry pointed out in his amiably naïve way, does that. But ignoring such definitions for a moment, the presence of a large, black scholarly robe and haywire hair, not to mention his qualifications, certainly label Ben a philosopher in the traditional sense. And he does spend his days cooped up in a room filled with scrolls and dusty books and a distinct lack of windows. He, like all philosophers, knows that the best way to uncover the hidden truths of the world is to be locked away from it most of the time.

The annoying think about these philosophers is that whenever an occasion arises where you think "Gee, I must consult a philosopher about all this", and, in fact, do that, you're always left with more questions than you had before you came. Ben, thankfully, is an exception. Last week when I bashed my fist on his grand oak door, and, upon its opening, spilt my worried guts on his shoulders, he placed a gun-shaped hand to support his chin, scratched his skull with the other and, a minute later, articulated a solution, which, I'm happy to inform, was resolute and, ultimately, successful.

Actually, I think I'll develop this further. See you then.