Grumpy Tim Coe finds a Platonic form on his porch. It’s The Circle. It’s glassy white. Its edge is sharp as nothing.
Grumpy Tim Coe shows The Circle to some scientists. “Harrumph,” they say. “Mere philosophy.”
He shows it to some philosophers. “Oh,” they say, “the concrete is for artists.”
He shows it to some artists. “A meaningless exercise in form,” they say. “Go away.”
Grumpy Tim Coe goes home. He takes The Circle out to his back yard. He sets it on a stump.
“Am I not justified?” he asks the world, grumpily, and then smashes it with a bat.