Philosophy is much stranger than magic.
Magic preserves the mundane structures of life but paints the skin of things with outlandish attributes. Philosophy attacks and changes life’s fundamental structures, rendering life – as a whole and in detail – spontaneously, weirdly new.
For this reason magic is perpetually popular and philosophy is perpetually shunned.
Your world stands on your immediate experience in the same way that a tree stands on its trunk.
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From Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil, 54:
What, at bottom, is the whole of modern philosophy doing? Since Descartes – and indeed rather in spite of him than on the basis of his precedent – all philosophers have been making an assault on the ancient soul concept under the cloak of a critique of the subject-and-predicate concept – that is to say, an assault on the fundamental presupposition of Christian doctrine. Modern philosophy, as an epistemological skepticism, is, covertly or openly, anti-Christian: although, to speak to more refined ears, by no means anti-religious. For in the past one believed in “the soul” as one believed in grammar and the grammatical subject: one said “I” is the condition, “think” is the predicate and conditioned – thinking is an activity to which a subject must be thought of as cause. Then one tried with admirable artfulness and tenacity to fathom whether one could not get out of this net – whether the reverse was not perhaps true: “think” the condition, “I” conditioned; “I” thus being only a synthesis produced by thinking. Kant wanted fundamentally to prove that, starting from the subject, the subject could not be proved – nor could the object: the possibility of an apparent existence of the subject, that is to say of “the soul,” may not always have been remote from him, that idea which, as the philosophy of the Vedanta, has exerted immense influence on earth before.
(In a preceding passage Nietzsche distinguished between a Germanic “Northern” Christianity and a Mediterranean “Southern” Christianity. When reading Nietzsche, I try to keep his attitude toward surfaces in the front of my mind. Unlike things, opposite things are sealed into the same skin and taken for identical. Especially notice his designations for “Christ”. “The Redeemer” and “the Crucified” should never be taken for synonyms. The person designated by “the founder of Christianity” is ambiguous; the singular article is plainly ironic.)
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Extending this thought: the substance of thinking – the language, the metaphors, the methods, the sense of relevance – where does that originate? There is a sense in which all things are founded on the immediacy of phenomena, but the questions of what elements of the phenomenal life-world are taken up and structured, and how and for what purpose the structuring is attempted and accomplished leads off beyond both the immediacy of phenomena and the (apparent) immediacy of the ego. It is clear that our “individuality” is articulated from a culture who transcends us. This realization, if it persuades you, cannot leave your morality intact. It changes absolutely everything.
Hiding sincerity behind irony – even hinting at irony – is often pure cowardice. Just fucking say it and be out there. Shelter your own kind.
“You do not know men. Men are difficult to understand if we want to be just. Do they know themselves? Can they explain themselves to themselves? Most of those who have deserted me perhaps would, had my luck held out, never have suspected their defection. There are vices and virtues born of circumstance.” – Napoleon
One must learn to love. — This is our experience in music: we must first learn in general to hear, to hear fully, and to distinguish a theme or a melody, we have to isolate and limit it as a life by itself; then we need to exercise effort and good-will in order to endure it in spite of its strangeness, we need patience towards its aspect and expression, and indulgence towards what is odd in it–in the end there comes a moment when we are accustomed to it, when we expect it, when it dawns upon us that we should miss it if it were lacking; and then it goes on to exercise its spell and charm more and more, and does not cease until we have become its humble and enraptured lovers, who want it, and want it again, and ask for nothing better from the world. It is thus with us, however, not only in music: it is precisely thus that we have learned to love everything that we love. We are always finally recompensed for our good-will, our patience, reasonableness and gentleness towards what is unfamiliar, by the unfamiliar slowly throwing off its veil and presenting itself to us as a new, ineffable beauty–that is its thanks for our hospitality. He also who loves himself must have learned it in this way: there is no other way. Love also has to be learned.
(Nietzsche, The Gay Science)
The the word “text” comes from the Latin verb texere. The word “text” is a thread stretches back into Rome, and on further back to where our collective memory fails. Whenever we speak we knit distant, ancient places into ordinariness, and that is miraculous. We don’t need invisible forces to account for collective being.
The words around memory are beautiful if you look at them closely. “Remember”, “Recollect”, “Recall”. The Greek word “anamnesis”, to unforget, is an interesting word to think about. I like to think of unforgetting as reordering reality according to its experiential proximity, being faithful to what is, and to the truth of what is closest and what is further out. Forgetting is allowing distant derivations to conceal what is nearest and most immediate. Explanation is often forgetting.
Sometimes we think in order to forget, but sometimes we think in order to unforget. The test: when you are finished, can you stop thinking it and simply see it?
Sometimes I think Charlie Kaufman is a better interpreter of Nietzsche than Walter Kaufmann:
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…Then, however, there happened that which in this astonishing long day was most astonishing: the ugliest man began once more and for the last time to gurgle and snort, and when he had at length found expression, behold! there sprang a question plump and plain out of his mouth, a good, deep, clear question, which moved the hearts of all who listened to him.
“My friends, all of you,” said the ugliest man, “what think ye? For the sake of this day — I am for the first time content to have lived my entire life.
And that I testify so much is still not enough for me. It is worthwhile living on the earth: one day, one festival… has taught me to love the earth.
‘Was that — life?’ will I say to death. ‘Well! Once more!’
My friends, what think ye? Will you not, like me, say to death: ‘Was that — life? …well! Once more!’ ” —
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Exhibit B:
To lie about subjective truths: that is the easiest kind of lie to pull off, and it has the deepest and most devastating consequences. The denial of the existence of something shared and precious – and precious for the very fact that it was shared – is to die alive. To die this death, but then to return to life and to trust again is pure recklessness.
Idealism (the recognition that the seeming solidity of this world is entirely founded on geist – spirit, mind) seems at first to offer a sort of solipsistic refuge, a sort of artificial autism for those who have been hurt too much in their contact with others. But if you are existentially scrupulous you’ll notice some anomalies. First of all, you never lose the impulse to speak about what you’ve seen. You cannot shut up – you just can’t. You’ll also discover that the one pain you wanted most to go away increases alarmingly: your words are unwelcome. You are turned away at every door. You lose the ability to remain blind to the fact that people prefer their images of you to you.
In theory, so what? But the immediacy of truth cuts straight through the theory, and it demands to know: Why this hurt? Where is it coming from?
Would you like to know where all this leads, so you can make an informed decision on whether to turn around?
One day, if an idealist has adequate courage and honesty, he will be forced to recognize that love is always and without exception rooted beyond the phenomenal (that is, in the metaphysical). We cannot dispense with the metaphysical without losing our capacity to care. We cannot protect ourselves and remain fully alive. And at this point, the one who meant to armor himself with spirituality discovers to his horror that he not only lacks armor, but also his skin. He is right out there, exposed, stinging, feeling everything and he has no choice in the matter.
Idealism – even existentialism – will not protect you for long. Find some other strategy – drugs, entertainments, a hectic and numbing lifestyle. Lose yourself in phenomena. For the love of God, don’t try to transcend this world if you’re seeking to escape it.
Please, be careful.
I finally finished Husserl’s The Crisis of European Sciences and Transcendental Phenomenology late last night.
Thinkers like Kant, Guenon, Hursserl, Heidegger, Gadamer, Bernstein and (to some extent) Voegelin tend to clarify and articulate things I’ve already tacitly practically grasped. Reading them helps me account for myself to others. (This is important especially for work. I am never coming at things from the normal angle, so I always have a lot of explaining to do, at least until I win the trust of people I work with. My dream situation is to be that guy who is called in where people are unable to find any angle at all by which a problem can be grasped. There isn’t even a question that can be asked, much less answered. That’s home for me. As Wittgenstein said “A philosophical problem has the form: I don’t know my way about.”)
However, the rarer thinkers who really nourish and energize me are the ones who throw me into states of alternating disorientation and insight that demand words, pictures, poems, myths. These are the thinkers who change you, sometimes radically, when you understand them… as a condition of understanding them at all. They keep the whole intellectual project firmly rooted in Why.
I’d planned to jump into Richard Rorty next, but now I think I might need to do a tour of Nietzsche again, and see how he reads for me now that I’ve acquired new modes of understanding and articulating. I do not believe he will blow me apart into inexplicable ecstatic insights like he used to. That makes me a little sad, but at the same time I am satisfied that I am making real progress.
Youth is boring because everything a youth does is directly or indirectly related to biological reproduction.
Adults – and there are fewer adults than we think – are preoccupied with spiritual reproduction, or to put it in more conventional (but for that reason more readily misunderstandable) terms: culture.
Culture is humankind reinventing ourselves out of our last reinvention, again and again, in generational chains of existence. Each generation could be called the son or daughter of humankind, if you have an ear for that kind of language.
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Culture is the domain of adults. Within it youth strives for adulthood. Culture dominated by youth, where adults cling to youth and simulate youth, is culture in decline. The directional implication of decline is important.
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We think we are lonely because we have no community; that is, we lack means to unite our aggregation of friends. That is only the foreground. The background, the missing ground, of genuine, nourishing being-with, seeing-with, feeling-with – is culture. But we degrade culture by objectifying it into an aggregate of foreground artifacts. In fact, culture is what envelops us as we share the intersubjective experience of meaningful artifacts.
Our art traditions are the blueness of water under the ensphering sky. When we share a love of something we are together and we know with perfect certainty we are not alone.
(Human self-reinvention is the heights. The primordial ground is the base. The strange, mute instincts that flow up into us from who-knows-where is the depths. The depth of a thinker is his unbroken existential span, from knowing participation in depth, through reflective knowledge, to knowing participation in height.)
(Reading together is the intimacy of intimacies.)
I used to feel ecstatic riding my bicycle, knowing that this beautiful, simple machine, powered by my own body, could carry me anywhere I chose. I could go to work, or I could pass right by work and travel all the way to Tennessee, or deep into the north. I’d fantasize about maintaining a secret storehouse with all the tubes, tires, chains and spare parts I’d need for a life-time. I’d be free forever.
Now I ride my bicycle and I know that with each bump the frame is gradually weakening. The chain and all the parts are slowly corroding and grinding themselves down against each other. The tires are unrolling themselves into the road like tape, leaving an invisible path of rubber particles everywhere I go. I will need to replace it, bit by bit, by pieces made by other people. Maybe someday no original parts will remain, and this bicycle will exist as a tradition. I am riding over streets made by people, to places valuable solely because of the people there. And what is going on in my body? It is corroding, sickening, healing, weakening, strengthening, replacing its own substance, but its terminus is inevitable. As I ride, I rethink and resurrect the words of people who wrote and died, and I think about living people. And the things I think and have rethought in reading are meant to be told – they demand telling – if someone can hear them.
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If humankind were to perish I’d want no part of what remained. We are in this together; and if we can learn to accept and love this inescapable fact (and stop trying to fantasize ourselves out of it), we can seize our freedom to make our time here together easier to love. Life is still vast.
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Space repeats itself in time. Each moment contains the entirety of space. Space and time repeats itself in each subject. Each subject contains the entirety of space and time. We are forced through time and we move about in space. What about subject, I and We? Can we “move” there? Have you moved or been moved in the interlapping being of an other?
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An admittedly weird digression:
Hermes was the messenger of the Olympian gods who moved infinitely quickly, at the speed of thought. What sort of messages do you suppose he transmitted? Facts?
Janus, the double-faced Roman god of doors, was related to Hermes, and I think he can provide us a clue. From Wikipedia:
Historically, however, Janus was one of the few Roman gods who had no ready-made Greek counterpart, or analogous mythology. We can find in Greece Janus-like heads of gods related to Hermes, perhaps forming a compound god: Hermathena (a herm of Athena), Hermares, Hermaphroditus, Hermanubis, Hermalcibiades, and so on. In the case of these compounds it is disputed whether they indicated a herm with the head of Athena, or with a Janus-like head of both Hermes and Athena, or a figure compounded of both deities.
I enjoy the question of what divine thoughts moved through the split brain of Janus? Was it an inner dialogue? Was there a witnessing consciousness somewhere above or below? Was he of two minds, or one… or three…?
One of the themes I’ve indexed on my wiki is the mask:
One of the most striking passages is from Beyond Good and Evil:
Everything profound loves a mask; the most profound things even have a hatred for image and parable. Might not nothing less than the antithesis be the proper disguise for the shame of a god walking abroad? A questionable question: it would be odd if some mystic had not already risked something to that effect in his mind. There are occurrences of such a delicate nature that one does well to cover them up with some rudeness to conceal them; there are actions of love and extravagant generosity after which nothing is more advisable than to take a stick and give the eyewitness a sound thrashing: that would cloud his memory. Some know how to cloud and abuse their own memory in order to have their revenge at least against this sole confidant:–shame is inventive. It is not the worst things that cause the worst shame: there is not only guile behind a mask–there is so much graciousness [Gute] in cunning. I could imagine that a human being who had to guard something precious and vulnerable might roll through life, rude and round as an old green wine cask with heavy hoops: the refinement of his shame would want it that way. A man whose shame is profound encounters even his destinies and delicate decisions on paths which few ever reach and whose mere existence his neighbors and closest intimates must not know: his mortal danger [Lebensgefahr] is concealed from their eyes, and so is his regained sureness of life [Lebens-Sicherheit]. Such a concealed man who instinctively needs speech for silence and to be silent and who is inexhaustible in his evasion of communication, wants and sees to it that a mask of him roams in his place through the hearts and heads of his friends; and supposing he did not want it, he would still realize some day that in spite of that a mask of him is there–and that this is good. Every profound spirit needs a mask: even more, around every profound spirit a mask is continually growing, owing to the constantly false, namely shallow, interpretation of every word, every step, every sign of life that he gives. —
Psychedelic: Ecstatic liberation from the tyranny of interpretation. It is snipping the bale-wire of one’s world and the self that belongs to it.
It is East; it is springtime; it is daybreak.
Time slows for a moment. Most of us mistake that slow moment for forever; then the moment passes.
I spent the last three and a half years learning to say the most difficult things, and I worked at it so hard and so single-mindedly that I forgot what it was I needed so badly to say.
Everything I wrote today is pure Nietzsche, by the way.
The most defiantly, radically individual thing an individual can do today is to reject individualism and to live alone with the absurd consequences.
It is much harder to be individual than you might think, and it is also a lot shittier. And it’s really not intrinsically valuable. Sometimes radical individualism can be useful when a new vision of life is needed, but that’s an exceptional case.
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(Said cheerfully): Philosophers are spiritual mutants. 99% of philosophers are pure waste, and the ones who aren’t waste are useful due to accidents of history. But philosophers are like salmon or sperm, doing their thing for no reason at all, for the sake of something they cannot see until it has been accomplished. When I use the word transcendence as a verb, what I am referring to is this kind of nonrational obedience to one’s own urgency that reveals its purpose only in hindsight.
The tragic vision: embracing the fact and its consequences that countless are wasted for the sake of the rare success, and experiencing pride in being wasted as an individual for the sake of one’s kind, which is the true seat of one’s own identity. It is affirming: “Lord, let me die… but not die… out.”
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In our content-glutted world, listening is exalted above speaking. There’s many people talking and few people listening.
Human beings are creatures of the foreground. We like to take the direct path. If few people are listening the solution is: Start listening. Right? Isn’t that a satisfying answer? Don’t you feel virtuous when you take the attitude of the good listener and let the other do all the talking? Don’t you feel charitable?
But let me ask you this: If you perceive it this way – that all honor is due the listener… are you really listening? Or, taking it from a different angle: when someone needs to be heard, is the need essentially one of needing some silent space and a friendly face? Or something else?
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The paradox: We listen to the degree that we value what is said. Unless the listener experiences the value of what he hears – unless he is genuinely grateful for what is being said – he’s not actually listening at all. Valuing doesn’t have to mean agreeing, it means valuing the shared being of conversation. A conversation of this kind has itself (as a shared whole) through its part-icipants.
The resolution: Start by refusing to listen to what you can’t value; but even more importantly, don’t speak what you do not spontaneously experience as valuable yourself. If it doesn’t move you saying it, it won’t move the other hearing it. Don’t say it, write it, sing it, paint it, build it, dance it. Wait attentively and openly for your vision to come to you from within or from without.
There is no shame in waiting. There is tremendous honor in waiting.
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Have you ever experienced the liberation of art?: a deeply persuasive presentation of a new way to be in the world?
Art that does not radiate a new existential possibility around itself is not art, but mere entertainment.
It does not matter if the art “moves” you emotionally, as long as you are moved within the same old world as before. That is mere sentimental jostling, and it seems like a big enough deal until you’ve experienced a true shift at the depths.
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Your universe is a planetarium. You look out into the starry, plaster dome and you see infinite space. You look at the projector at the center, and it is an object, furniture.
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We no longer expect enough. But do not worry: desperation is on its way and it will liberate us from our drab satisfaction. Nothing but genuine intense pain can liberate. Until then vanity and fear conspire to imprison us in cozy complacence. I have nothing to say to someone who has never suffered and known the disorientation of despair.
I’ve always loved people in deep crisis, and also people on psychedelic drugs; both listen urgently enough to hear the radically unexpected.
“Lord we have come to the end of this kind of vision of heaven…”
“The Greek artists, the tragedians for example, poetized in order to conquer; their whole art cannot be thought of apart from contest: Hesiod’s good Eris, ambition, gave their genius its wings. Now this ambition demands above all that their work should preserve the highest excellence in their own eyes, as they understand excellence, that is to say, without reference to a dominating taste or the general opinion as to what constitutes excellence in a work of art; and thus Aeschylus and Euripides were for a long time unsuccessful until they had finally educated judges of art who assessed their work according to the standards they themselves laid down. It is thus they aspire to victory over their competitors as they understand victory, a victory before their own seat of judgment, they want actually to be more excellent; then they exact agreement from others as to their own assessment of themselves and confirmation of their own judgment. To aspire to honor here means: ‘to make oneself superior and to wish this superiority to be publicly acknowledged.’ If the former is lacking and the latter nonetheless still demanded, one speaks of vanity. If the latter is lacking and its absence not regretted, one speaks of pride.”
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Redeemed from scepticism. — A: Others emerge out of a general moral scepticism ill-humoured and feeble, gnawed-at and worm-eaten, indeed half-consumed — but I do so braver and healthier than ever, again in possession of my instincts. Where a sharp wind blows, the sea rises high and there is no little danger to be faced, that is where I feel best. I have not become a worm, even though I have often had to work and tunnel like a worm. — B: You have just ceased to be a sceptic! For you deny! — A: And in doing so I have again learned to affirm.
(Daybreak)
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What makes one heroic? — Going out to meet at the same time one’s highest suffering and one’s highest hope.
In what do you believe? — In this: that the weights of all things must be determined anew.
What does your conscience say? — “You shall become the person you are.”
Where are your greatest dangers? — In pity.
What do you love in others? — My hopes.
Whom do you call bad? — Those who always want to put to shame.
What do you consider most humane? — To spare someone shame.
What is the seal of liberation? — No longer being ashamed in front of oneself.
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For the new year.– I still live, I still think: I still have to live, for I still have to think. Sum, ergo cogito: cogito, ergo sum. Today everybody permits himself the expression of his wish and his dearest thought; hence I , too, shall say what it is that I wish from myself today, and what was the first thought to run across my heart this year–what thought shall be for me the reason, warranty, and sweetness of my life henceforth. I want to learn more and more to see as beautiful what is necessary in things; then I shall be one of those who make things beautiful. Amor Fati: let that be my love henceforth! I do not want to wage war against what is ugly. I do not want to accuse; I do not even want to accuse those who accuse. Looking away shall be my only negation. And all in all and on the whole: some day I wish to be only a Yes-sayer.
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Get on the ships! — Consider how every individual is affected by an overall philosophical justification of his way of living and thinking–he experiences it as a sun that shines especially for him and bestows warmth, blessings, and fertility on him, it makes him independent of praise and blame, self-sufficient, rich, liberal with happiness and good will; incessantly it fashions evil into good, leads all energies to bloom and ripen, and does not permit the petty weeds of grief and chagrin to come up at all. In the end then one exclaims: Oh how I wish that many such new suns were yet to be created! Those who are evil or unhappy and the exceptional human being–all these should also have their philosophy, their good right, their sunshine! What is needful is not pity for them!–we must learn to abandon this arrogant fancy, however long humanity has hitherto spent learning and practicing it–what these people need is not confession, conjuring of souls, and forgiveness of sins! What is needful is a new justice! And a new watchword! And new philosophers! The moral earth, too, is round! The moral earth, too, has its antipodes! The antipodes, too, have the right to exist! There is yet another world to be discovered–and more than one! Embark, philosophers!
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To be sure, there is also quite another category of genius, that of justice; and I can in no way see fit to esteem that kind lower than any philosophical, political, or artistic genius. It is its way to avoid with hearty indignation everything which blinds and confuses our judgment about things; thus it is an enemy of convictions, for it wants to give each thing its due, be it living or dead, real or fictive–and to do so it must apprehend it clearly; it therefore places each thing in the best light and walks all around it with an attentive eye. Finally it will even give to its opponent, blind or shortsighted “conviction” (as men call it:–women call it “faith”), what is due to conviction–for the sake of truth.
Practice precedes theory. Practice is wordlessly active. Theory is the verbal ensurfacing of practice.
Hermeneutics is the practice of performing the ensurfacing practice in reverse (most obvious when performed in the intellectual realm). It is the reconsititution of wordless intellectual practice guided by the theoretical content, treated as artifact, but not as the essential content of the writing.
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I read Nietzsche hermeneutically, but it took me nearly four years to explain how reading Nietzsche was unlike other kinds of reading. It took me all this time to find the descriptive language for a practice I’d already mastered, but mastered mutely.
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Genuine philosophy is not factual: philosophy presents its factual content like a starry sky, by which the reader/listener can navigate his understanding. The navigating is the essential philosophical act. But most people look at the star-charts and confuse navigation with astronomy.
You cannot summarize philosophy. You cannot factually transfer it. Philosophy is not reflections, it is reflecting. Philosophy must be coperformed, or it degrades into mere fact.
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What has made Nietzsche such a controversial and perpetually fascinating writer is this: much of his content is strictly artifact, often the opposite of his own private opinions. He leaves it to the reader to apply the intellectual practices he teaches; it is up to the reader to apply this practice to his own content and to reach his own conclusions. And he assumes his reader will need to reach his own conclusions because precisely the readers Nietzsche wants (of whom and to whom he wrote frequently) will find the content of Nietzsche’s apparent philosophy, his factual philosophy, completely unacceptable, offensive. But you have to stay with him, anyway, all the way to the ugly end. If you try to cut to the conclusions, you will miss everything.
Nietzsche’s ideal reader – out of the deep, intense urgency – will apply Nietzsche’s practical philosophy to the goal of escaping Nietzsche’s factual philosophy – to the refuge of his own conclusions. And just when you think you disagree with him, Nietzsche winks mischeviously and compassionately.
Remember: Nietzsche called himself the first Dionysian philosopher. Dionysus/Siva: the dancing god.
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The consciousness of appearance. — How wonderful and new and yet how gruesome and ironic I find my position vis-a-vis the whole of existence in the light of my insight! I have discovered for myself that the human and animal past, indeed the whole primal age and past of all sentient being continues in me to invent, to love, to hate, and to infer, — I suddenly woke up in the midst of this dream, but only to the consciousness that I am dreaming and that I must go on dreaming lest I perish: as a sleepwalker must go on dreaming lest he fall. What is “appearance” for me now! Certainly not the opposite of some essence,–what could I say about any essence except to name the attributes of its appearance! Certainly not a dead mask that one could place on an unknown X or remove from it! Appearance is for me that which lives and is effective and goes so far in its self-mockery that it makes me feel that this is appearance and will-o’-the-wisp and a dance of spirits and nothing more, — that among all these dreamers, I, too, the “knower,” am dancing my dance, that the knower is a means for prolonging the earthly dance and thus belongs to the masters of ceremony of existence, and that the sublime consistency and interrelatedness of all knowledge perhaps is and will be the highest means to preserve — the universality of dreaming and the mutual comprehension of all dreamers and thus also the continuation of the dream.
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I would only believe in a God who could dance.
And when I saw my devil, I found him serious, thorough, profound, solemn: he was the spirit of gravity — through him all things fall.
Not by wrath, but by laughter, do we kill. Come, let us kill the spirit of gravity!
I learned to walk; since then have I let myself run. I learned to fly; since then I do not need to be pushed to move from a spot.
Now I am light, now I fly, now I see myself beneath myself, now a god dances through me. —
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
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Spoiler: Dionysus is wordless practice, dance doing its dance. Apollo is theory and everything else that belongs to surface. Dionysian philosophy is doing, faithfully, what philosophical urgency (not curiosity or ambition) impels one to do. Only afterward – as consummation – the accomplishment, which is known only in hindsight, is articulated. This is Nietzsche’s “overcoming“.
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This might be a pretty good scholarly paper.