You do not currently have permission to view the full text for this document. Please sign in to an account with an active subscription or contact support.
“Philosopher Left to Muse on Ridicule Over a Hoax.” That was the title of a New York Times article (Carvajal 2010) about a famous philosopher who had cited in his new book the Paraguayan lectures of Jean-Baptiste Botul, a sham philosopher widely known to be the satirical creation of Frédéric Pagès, a witty journalist.
“Mr. Botul's school of thought is called Botulism, his followers are botuliennes and they debate such weighty theories as the metaphysics of flab. As they describe it, Mr. Botul's astonishing ideas ranged from phenomenology to cheese, sausages, women's breasts, and the transport of valises during the 1930s,” the paper reported (Carvajal 2010, A4).
Reading the article led me to laugh out loud, to share it across the breakfast table with my wife, and then—uncharacteristically for me—to forward the piece via e-mail to a wide range of friends.
It was only later, when one of my friends sent me an appreciative reply, that the significance of the article, my laughter, and my advertising the humor became clear.
Fifty years ago, when I was a medical intern on the acute women's ward of a hospital, I had a patient who died of botulism. She and her husband had both been admitted to the hospital with severe gastrointestinal distress, but were then separated as was customary at that time to wards for different genders. None of us on staff on either ward could make an accurate diagnosis until, sadly, one of them died. Then, with post mortem examination and further tests possible, the diagnosis came to light so that the other could be saved. The experience felt like the horrible irony in a Borges story.