I've been reading a good bit of Robert Boyle lately, and last night I found myself dreaming that I was him, writing the following in my diary:
This day I have been much engagethed in my diverse philosophical speculations, devoting a requisite portion of my hours to each of the following proposed works: Essay on Fluids Stored Diversely in Jars Upon Shelves Exhibiting Extremity of Height; Commentary on Promiscuous Experiments and Experiments in Promiscuity; Essay Concerning Sensations Generated by Cold, Poros Bodies Placed in Contact with the Underside of the Foote of the Illiterates of the Maldive Islands; and A Natural History of the Gassy Emissions Emanating from the Nether Regions of the Residents of the Antipodes. In addition, my estemeed assistant Mr. Hooke and I have been able to make further progress on our hypothesis that the weight of the supraregions of the atmosphere doth compresseth the shite out of the little curlicues of air particles trappethed down in the depths of that sea, whereas, should they be absolved from bearing the pressure of that mass, they springeth the fuck back into their natural shape and length, like unto "the Boyle family pride" upon my sensory apparatus catching the merest glimpse of Mrs. Boyle in naught but her petticoat.
Pearce: British Journal for the History of Philosophy Deneen: The American Conservative Chao-Reiss: Computing Reviews
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