Realism in no way resembles the colourless fantasm of otherness that is refuted by arguments, so many sophisms, against it, but is more like the childlike vision that sees things of the world as huge and alive, that enjoys them to no ulterior end. It is not Samuel Johnson kicking a rock but children thrilled by the wholly unexpected eruptions of effects without a cause. Philosophy may begin in wonder but what kind of philosophy can it be which does not also end there?