Sex lives of the great philosophers

That Karl Popper – oh, he was a lively one, he was! "Whoops! – that was an unintended consequence," he'd say, and oh, how we'd laugh!

I said to that Gilbert Ryle once, I did, "There's no doubt about what's on your mind, is there, dear?" and he got the funniest look on his face, he did. He always paid me extra after that, too.

That Bertrand Russell, he'd had most of the women in Cambridge and Oxford. Well, you know that, you've read his autobiography, haven't you? And probably more than once. Still, "Mavis," he'd say to me, he would, he'd say "Mavis, it wouldn't be St. Swithin's Day without I give you a right doing over." Which he did. Do me over, I mean, every St. Swithin's Day.

And don't believe everything you read about that John Stuart Mill. Qualitative happiness, my eye. All he wanted was quantity, dearie, if you get my drift. Me and the other girls, we used to have to work shifts to keep him happy, we did.

Now that Artie Schopenhauer, once he had the idea he had the will, you can believe me. He brought that Hegel along once but I wouldn't want to tell you some of the things he wanted to do, no I wouldn't.

That Kierkegaard was a rum one. He never really did anything. He'd just sit and talk to me in Danish. He said it was English, but it sounded like Danish to me. His little joke, I reckon. As I say, he was a rum one, he was.

Oh, but that René Descartes! He had them French ways about him. He was ever so suave and debonair. Cogito ergo sum, he'd say and I'd say Futuo ergo pecuniam habeo. Oh, how we'd laugh!

That William of Occam was a handful, I can tell you. He was what you call a submissive. I'd flog him and flog him until finally he'd gasp and say "I have avoided multiplying entities," and then he'd leave as quiet and polite as you please.

My friend Gladys didn't want me to have anything to do with that Averroes but "Glad," I said to her, I said "Glad, I don't care where he's from or if he's an Arab or an Hottentot or whatever it is that he is, as long as he pays me in good English money that's all I ask." I used to get a groat in those days, dear. As it turned out my agent had misunderstood his English and he was looking for a tour guide! Oh, how we laughed about that! So as not to disappoint I got Mr. Bloggs to show him and his wife around Cambridge; it was a lot smaller then – stands to reason, doesn't it? after all – so it didn't take long, but they paid him a groat and a half! They sent Mr. Bloggs a postcard, too, from Bognor, they did.

Well, dear, I'll have to tell you about the Greek gentlemen next week. This nice Lacanian gentleman is coming over and I have to put the plastic slipcovers on all the furniture, so I'll do that while you're having the nice bath that Auntie's going to draw for you. Oh – ta ever so much!

Sex Lives of the Great Philosophers © 2000, John FitzGerald