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MORE ‘NOTES FROM THE BUNKER’’…
A fitful serving of personal angst, served up on a steaming plate of ruminative observation concerned with the human tendency to seek immortality through the creation of small biological replicas of one’s self. [Please remember that as a visiting member of an alien life form living in another part of the cosmos, I am merely reporting what I have observed on this planet.]
NOT CELINE’S CHILDREN…
Celine (Louis Ferdinand Auguste Destouches, the French novelist and physician) was very clear on the nature of our human instinct to reproduce (“… we pass on our life to a biped of the next century, with frenzy, at any cost, as if it were the greatest of pleasures to perpetuate ourselves…as if, when all’s said and done, it would make us immortal..”). Despite this savage disparagement, Celine was, however, sanguinely sentimental, although sentimental in a starkly cynical, darkly dismissive vein.
Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, there was only one Celine (this depends upon your outlook, for there seem to be plentiful numbers of his progenic clones scattered throughout the world today). Things are certainly different now from the way they were in his time and as the world is drawn ever closer together thanks to the electronic miracle (curse?) of modern communication, those essential differences continue to exert an effect that is…
