Ike, old man, don’t go all metaphysical on me, because it isn’t convincing.
Any number of firms manufacture blank, bound pages knowing they will be turned into diaries. Do you really expect them to be sold with the handwriting already inside, so they live up to your hairsplitting definition?
If you want to call these blank objects caterpillars, do so, but they will be butterflies by the end of the story.
That is, once the ink hits the page. If you like, I can go down to the local bookshop right now and pick one up for you. They sell them by the dozens from a little shelf labeled “diaries and journals.” (I think it’s a sex difference thing. “Real Men Write Journals, not Diaries”—Clint Eastwood)
For your continued edification, below is a formerly blank book from 1888 which some German fellow named Bagley wrote in. He also had the generic word ‘diary’ stamped on the cover, but he added his own dates as he went along. Strange as it sounds, everyone is calling it a diary! (and they didn’t even need Schopenhauer or Hegel to work it out).
Anyway, the important element of Barrett’s request is not 1880-1890 (which, for all we know, is only Martin Earl’s interpretation of what Barrett was after, and not the precise instructions, which we will never know), the important element is that Barrett (be it Mike or Anne or both) needed at least TWENTY BLANK PAGES.
Ergo, it was the blank pages he/she/they were after. Blank. Unwritten upon. It’s not a smoking gun, it’s a howitzer, and no amount of metaphysical tap-dancing will change that fact.
But thanks for admitting that you have no explanation for Barrett’s highly unusual request. Your honesty is commendable, but I’m afraid it means that Chief Inspector Swanson has no choice but to demote you from the Bunco Squad back to light traffic duty.
Any number of firms manufacture blank, bound pages knowing they will be turned into diaries. Do you really expect them to be sold with the handwriting already inside, so they live up to your hairsplitting definition?
If you want to call these blank objects caterpillars, do so, but they will be butterflies by the end of the story.
That is, once the ink hits the page. If you like, I can go down to the local bookshop right now and pick one up for you. They sell them by the dozens from a little shelf labeled “diaries and journals.” (I think it’s a sex difference thing. “Real Men Write Journals, not Diaries”—Clint Eastwood)
For your continued edification, below is a formerly blank book from 1888 which some German fellow named Bagley wrote in. He also had the generic word ‘diary’ stamped on the cover, but he added his own dates as he went along. Strange as it sounds, everyone is calling it a diary! (and they didn’t even need Schopenhauer or Hegel to work it out).
Anyway, the important element of Barrett’s request is not 1880-1890 (which, for all we know, is only Martin Earl’s interpretation of what Barrett was after, and not the precise instructions, which we will never know), the important element is that Barrett (be it Mike or Anne or both) needed at least TWENTY BLANK PAGES.
Ergo, it was the blank pages he/she/they were after. Blank. Unwritten upon. It’s not a smoking gun, it’s a howitzer, and no amount of metaphysical tap-dancing will change that fact.
But thanks for admitting that you have no explanation for Barrett’s highly unusual request. Your honesty is commendable, but I’m afraid it means that Chief Inspector Swanson has no choice but to demote you from the Bunco Squad back to light traffic duty.
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