The Angry Man's review of Newtons 'Principia'

              The Blinding Light of Overhype
Isaac Newton’s Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica is often heralded as the pinnacle of intellectual achievement, as if its mere existence single-handedly flung humanity out of the Dark Ages and into the glorious light of scientific progress. The truth, however, is far less flattering. Yes, the Principia formalized the laws of motion and universal gravitation, but let’s not pretend Newton came down from Mount Olympus with truths engraved on stone tablets. He built upon ideas painstakingly developed by others—Kepler, Galileo, and Descartes, to name a few. Yet, in true Newtonian fashion, his ego managed to eclipse theirs entirely, leaving them as little more than footnotes in his story of supposed genius.
               The Calculus Conundrum
And let’s talk about calculus, shall we? Because if there’s anything more infuriating than Newton’s obsessive need for credit, it’s his bitter feud with Leibniz over who invented it. The Principia, while groundbreaking, drips with Newton’s habit of encoding his findings in obscure geometric methods, almost as if he were trying to make himself indispensable to the scientific elite. He could’ve leveraged the calculus he worked so hard to develop, but no—he locked it behind layers of unnecessary complexity, turning what should have been a triumph of clarity into an academic power play. Brilliant? Sure. Benevolent? Hardly.
            Unforgiving Genius, Relentless Obscurity
Reading the Principia is less like beholding a masterpiece and more like wading through molasses while being lectured by an unsympathetic genius who refuses to simplify anything for mere mortals. Newton had no interest in making his work accessible—he wasn’t writing for humanity; he was writing for posterity. His dense, Latin-filled prose and labyrinthine diagrams are the antithesis of user-friendliness, ensuring that only the most dedicated scholars could decipher his findings. Perhaps that’s why it became so revered—it’s easier to idolize something you don’t understand than to admit it might just be intentionally inscrutable.
                          Conclusion
And if Newton’s Principia wasn’t enough of a monument to his insufferable arrogance, let’s not forget his later years—when the so-called ‘father of modern science’ turned into a glorified executioner. Yes, our dear Isaac, the man who supposedly unlocked the secrets of the universe, spent his twilight years gleefully hunting down forgers and sending them to the gallows. Imagine it: Newton, perched in the shadows, watching as the trapdoor swung open and necks snapped, all in the name of justice. Justice? No, this was entertainment for him—a grotesque spectacle that families, children in tow, would gather to watch as if it were a carnival. And Newton? He wasn’t just a bystander; he was the architect of their doom, wielding his power with the same cold precision he used to calculate the motion of planets.
"This is the man we revere? A man who could unravel the mysteries of the cosmos but found equal satisfaction in the crack of a noose? The Principia may have changed the world, but its author was no hero. He was a man who hoarded knowledge, crushed rivals, and, in his later years, turned his intellect toward the grim machinery of death. So yes, Newton’s legacy is undeniable, but let’s not pretend it’s unblemished. His genius was as dark as it was brilliant, and the Principia stands as both a triumph of human intellect and a chilling reminder of the man who wrote it. A man who, for all his brilliance, seemed to find as much joy in the gallows as he did in the stars.
...I figured this would bring a smile to some of your faces...