Geometry (n.) studies limit-shapes for their own sake — the poles that the craftsman's endless "straighter, flatter" leans toward and never reaches.
Geometry (n.) once applied lets you "calculate" events no one ever measured — ideal geometry, estranged from the world, returns as a method of knowing the real.
Geometry (n.) was already empty when Galileo inherited it: the surveyor's art that gave it meaning had long since stopped being practiced or remembered.
Geometry (n.) determines with absolute precision every possible way the motion I have glimpsed could continue — and does not indicate a single real course for the object that is really moving.
Geometry (n.) once arithmetized is emptied of meaning almost automatically: you calculate, and only at the end remember that the numbers stood for shapes.
Geometry (n.) could not exist if every geometer had to reactivate the whole chain of proofs back to the first premises before adding a stone; it lives by building on meanings it does not re-live.
Geometry (n.) had its self-evidence taken for granted by Galileo — it never entered his mind that the "how" of it could become a problem; he inherited it with the naivete that keeps every geometer working.
Geometry (n.) as taught substitutes drawn figures for the actual production of ideal objects — and success does the rest: not insight, but practical usefulness nobody understands.
Geometry (n.) in its pure form is at bottom the rule for completing the unseen sides of things: we know with apodeictic certainty that the invisible determinations of a thing must be spatial.
Geometry (n.) on one empiricist story rests on an immense store of impressions accumulated by all the races of mankind and the beasts before them — long-forgotten, hypothetical experiences that no physicist would accept as grounds for anything.