The other day I saw a reader review of Isolate, calling it “Pointless,” and from what little the reviewer wrote, I’m sure the book seemed pointless and plotless to him, because he saw the descriptions and conversations as meaning nothing. The “point” to all this is that for something not to be pointless, you have to understand whatever it is – a sport, a game, an occupation – and you have to like it and/or gain something from it. But it wasn’t pointless to me because I enjoyed it. You have to hit a ball over a net into a certain area and keep doing it until you or your opponent fails to keep the ball in the court. On the other hand, I played tennis moderately well until I was in my fifties, and enjoyed it, but I have to admit that, on an intellectual level, tennis is as pointless as golf. The fewest strokes to get a small ball hundreds of yards into a small hole… and then do it again seventeen more times? Now, I can appreciate the considerable strength, skill, and concentration it takes to be good at golf, but for me it’s pointless. I played golf occasionally until I was in my late twenties and a few times after that with my father, but I never saw much point to it. My father was a golfer, at one point a scratch golfer, who loved the game.
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