Consider for a moment, the loneliness of the modern Philosopher: does there not exist in all of man’s billions a single soul worthy of his sword and provocation; a man who possesses the appreciation of nuance and agility of will to absorb his curses and insults, one who can hurl them back as one might return a spear or live grenade?
Truly, out of his furious desperation does the Philosopher evoke the entire theogony of his gods, if only to create a kind of surrogate for the real flesh-and-blood foe he hopes may someday arise, he whom the Philosopher is but wind and cloud in absence thereof.
Devil walks into bar. Orders drink. Asks Philosopher sitting next to him: “And what do you do?”