Misery is Subjective.

Ludwig Wittgenstein’s father, Karl, owned the Austrian steel industry and was second only to the Rothschild’s in terms of wod. But rather like Rupert Murdock he doesn’t seem to have been the best of influences on his children. Where James wouldn’t even recognise the truth if God e-mailed him direct, no less than three of Ludwig’s brothers committed suicide. One even emulated Robert Maxwell by falling off a boat in Chesapeake Bay in suspicious circumstance. But Ludwig, considered by some to be a genius, moved to Glossop and became a philosopher. Such utterances as, “If someone believes that he has flown from America to England in the last few days, then, I believe, he cannot be making a mistake” must come from someone so deep he has to be gifted. Personally I think he thought too much. I once commented in desperation to an immensely thick young woman on a date, “All the pigs in the field aren’t green” and garnered a similar effect. In retrospect I should have said it to Bertrand Russell and become a Fellow of Trinity College. As it is, apart from these blog breaks, I’ve been house cleaning and wiping up smelly cat spray all day. In Ludwig’s final hours he said to a friend, “Tell them I had a wonderful life.” Now if I’d added more detail to his biography you would have no doubt gathered by now that wasn’t strictly the case. But then again perhaps, “Not all the miserable buggers I come across are actually miserable.”