Reviews are like hitting a ping pong ball into a net and asking the net how the ball wishes to proceed.
Anyone claiming something like this is begging to be derided and slandered. Why? Because those that deride and slander know better, of course. This segment of human progress – the serial reviewers – are so expertly nuanced in the art of knowing what’s right and wrong that we, as a species, do not need to continue reproducing: these enlightened beings are empirical evidence that we have already summited our admittedly intense teleological peak.
These same reviewers would feel dismayed upon reading this writer’s observations, for they would claim his observations do not reach (nor even aspire to) the consistent level of parity-leaning excellence they manage to manifest daily. They would interject with info per the pragmatic element of reviews – how they separate the riff-raff from the spiffy stuff – despite them being on the slickly hypocritical path of nodding favorably toward employers who either currently or imaginatively pay them to produce biased content.
And, as we all know, bias remains biased no matter how expensive a bed you cannot fall asleep on at night.
So what’s the point of discussing the futility of reviews? Who knows or even cares. When its nearly midnight and your neighbor has been flushing the toilet every three minutes for the last three hours, all that is real is our species’s mountain of myriad inconsistencies which, perhaps charmingly, render all attempts at trying to discern between right and wrong, treasure from trash, and that which is and isn’t worthy completely and utterly futile.
And that, folks, might well be the chrysalis of freedom right there.