Last night, I found myself wandering the unfortunately named Provo Towne Centre Mall. Firefox knows my locale, which, as far as I know, is also the same locale of the mall in south Provo. Because of this, Firefox is sufficiently intelligent to inform me that I spelled both “Towne” and “Centre” incorrectly, given my locale. Every time I see a sign owned by a person who apparently believes that British-izing their spelling makes things quaint or chic, I feel the need to offer the public the same courtesy that Firefox gives me, and spray-paint a large, red, squiggly line underneath the offensive words.
Perhaps I shouldn’t be so judgmental. For all I know, the mall might exist is some “Little Britain” district of south Provo. It’s possible that in March of 1962, there was a great cod scarcity in the Atlantic, brought about the conceivable over-fishing of cod during the previous decade. This conceivable over-fishing could have been due to certain advances in frying techniques that might have been made in 1953, making the old, British standard of fish and chips even more popular. It’s logical to assume that if this potential string of events did, in fact, occur, that it could have lead to a great rise in a unemployment in those who worked in the fishing industry, leading to a possible exodus of British fishermen ending up in south Provo, and working for Geneva Steel, and thereby justifying the spelling on the Provo Towne Centre Mall’s sign. I have very little reason to believe that such events actually took place, but I really don’t have reason to believe that they didn’t.
I imagine that if you are still reading this, it’s only to discover what on earth all of this has to do with colonial jurisprudence. I’ll explain. Finding myself in strange and disagreeable surroundings, I sought out something more akin to my natural habitat. That, of course, would be WaldenBooks. I had about 30 minutes until my group’s table would be ready and I would have to return to the restaurant, so I spent about 35 minutes in the bookstore. This led to a small amount of philosophical introspection, which I promise will eventually explain the title of this posting.
Lately, I’ve been spending quite a bit of my time reading and browsing through bookstores. Some of the books that I’ve acquired over the last month include a collection of Ayn Rand’s early works, Origin of Species, 3 Theodore Roosevelt biographies, and a collection of food articles by Mark Levy. Not only am I spending more time reading, but I’m also reading more widely. I thoroughly enjoy it, and I also appreciate everything that I’ve learned and the different set of ideas that I have to contemplate, but I also am worried that maybe this isn’t the best use of my time. To reference two talks by Elder Oaks, sometimes I wonder if I could be labeled as one who is “ever learning, but never coming to a knowledge of the truth,” or even one who is sacrificing great things in order to busy myself with things that are just good.
This all leads up to the latest manifestation of my possibly unhealthy interest in reading. That would be me, curled up in my bed on a Saturday afternoon, reading about colonial jurisprudence from a copy of “A History of American Law,” which I bought last night at WaldenBooks in the Provo Towne Centre Mall.