A Theory of Just Ice
OK, I haven't got very far with it, but at least I'm trying. The thing about John Rawls is that he writes like a convalescent Mantovani strung out on Valium in a Llandudno retirement home. I can just about manage two or three paragraphs of A Theory of Justice at a stretch without drifting into catalepsy, but that's about it. This looks like being a long haul. But hell - I managed Atlas Shrugged last year, so I should be able to cope. In fact, this ought to be child's play in comparison. At least Rawls doesn't try to pretend he's a novelist. And no, don't take my word for any of this. Have I already mentioned I am in the early stages of premature senile dementia brought on by chronic oxygen depletion? I think I have. If I was a young man with a normal haemoglobin count and fewer work responsibilities, I daresay I could rip through Rawls in an afternoon. Being terminally degenerate isn't pretty. But I am resolved not to go gently into that ...