I understand nothing of the rhythms of scholarship, W. says. I know nothing of its seasons: of the time of sowing, of tending and caring, and of the harvest, the gathering in of the crops of thought.
Isn't that of which what he dreams, at the beginning of the summer: of the coming autumn, which will see his thought-crops ripe and ready, bowing in the breeze? Isn't it of carrying back the harvest of his ideas, so carefully tended, in his sun-browned arms?
There must be a process of thought-threshing, too, W. says. Of thought-winnowing! The wheat must be separated from the chaff. And there will be chaff, he said. Even the greatest of thinkers cannot avoid chaff. But there is still wheat. Still the evidence of a year's long labour …
But what would he know of this? His crops have failed, W. says, as they have always failed, and he stands in the empty field, weeping.
Lars Iyer's Blog 