The table, that was once up against the window, one leaf folded, the other up to hold the monitor and keyboard, has been pulled out. Both leaves up, the other to accommodate my Kant reading Visitor. We work together in the living room, face to face over the table – trouble, however: I work with music playing, and she does not; and I like to listen to Jandek, which she definitely does not. She reads me this passage:
The aesthetic egoist is satisfied with his own taste, even if others find his verses, paintings, music, and similar things ever so bad, and criticise or even laugh at them. He deprives himself of progress toward that which is better when he isolates himself with his own judgement; he applauds himself and seeks the touchstone of artistic beauty only in himself.
I laugh. ‘Oh that’s priceless’. ‘It’s not meant as praise of the egoist’, says my Visitor.
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