My insomnia, fueled by crying babies, coffee, and a sense of urgency about my work, has me reading (about) Bakhtin.
This shit is heavy, but heavy in the right ways.
I became very much a materialist: what we see is what is. There is nothing out in the ether, no Platonian super form in the metaphorical sky. There is no love or truth or hate or anything, but the event or string of events that we arrange and organise in our minds to make meaning. There are only words: you and me talking and creating the world out of what we have available to us.
How much further down the rabbit hole with this PhD take me?
From Dialogism: Bakhtin and his world By Michael Holquist
