PRINT March 1973

Eadweard Muybridge: Fragments of a Tesseract

It is the artist who is truthful and it is photography which lies, for in reality time does not stop.

—Auguste Rodin, 1911

HERE IS AN IRKSOME PARADOX paradox of public consciousness: to be accorded the status of a legend, is to be whittled down to a microscopic point, a nonentity at the intersection of a random handful of idiosyncrasies, tidbits of gossip, shreds of advertising copy.

To the nonspecialist, René Descartes was the philosopher of a single motto (just three little words and in Latin, no less). He didn’t like to get out of bed in the morning (rhymes with Belacqua, Oblomov, Beckett). His taste in eggs was, to put it mildly, revolting. That Descartes presides over a truly exquisite adventure of the human mind, the marriage of geometry with algebra, is mere impedimenta for scholars to attend to.

Beatrix Potter, a savante of mycology whose theories of symbiosis have recently found

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