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Jonathan Swift, The EXAMINER. Numb. 15.
From Thursday November 2, to Thursday November 9, 1710
Or is it Number 14? Odd.
It is a strange sensation to be reading Plato's Republic during a hyperinflation of pother and mendaciousness: Polemarchus has not hidden behind a sidescreen to shout abuse at Socrates until he goes away; Thrasymachus, angry as he is, has not started bellowing his "the just is nothing other than the advantage of the stronger" incessantly, nor hired a chorus of harpies to accuse Socrates of Trumpy McHitlerFace RacoSexoPronounism, or a battalion of lawyers to keep on impeaching him until they find something to impeach him for.
There seems to be a sense that there is such a thing as reality, and that the truth of it is worth some measured and reasonable enquiry.
A relief, then, to note that Socrates was eventually put to death and that Swift was writing three hundred years ago: the "post-modern" is nothing new and civilisation has survived it until now.
Illustration: Bosch's "Ship of Fools" from five hundred years ago (phew). I cannot find an "Aeroplane of Fools" though the Falsehoods must be whizzing about somehow.
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