Last night on the phone, Carl was pestering me and I tried to make him stop by threatening him, "Don't make me read you a sentence of Descartes. BECAUSE I WILL."
He challenged me.
I opened my book, Meditations on First Philosophy (1641), found my sentence and said, "This one's perfect. It makes no sense at all."
In the words of Rene Descartes, "The first is that, from the fact that the human mind, when turned in on itself, does not perceive itself to be anything other than a thinking thing, it does not follow that its nature or essence consists only in its being a thinking thing, such that the word only excludes everything else that also could perhaps be said to belong to the nature of the soul."
Carl hooted, "What worries me about that is what if everyone in the seventeenth century read that and thought, 'Well, sure, that goes without saying...'"
I began to cackle uncontrollably and Carl asked, "Is this the point in our conversation where everything deteriorates?"