Since I shared with you yesterday a very impulsive and rancorous comment on a history of philosophy book, let me counter that with a much lighter analysis, but one as impulsive as the latter. This is actually a great opportunity for me to postpone again my posts on Contemporary Philosophy — my test is already tomorrow, so there is in fact no more pressing need for these posts. My sole aim was to kill two birds with one stone by simultaneously studying and adding to my blog. I am not prepared for Idealism yet — I lack both the academic knowledge and the tolerance right now.
I was greatly struck by the duality of it, by the way you get ripped out of ordinary reality and made plunge into a much darker one; one that, in the end, feels much more real than the one you see as true when you look about yourself.
I am committing a crime. Right now.
If there is any solace and forgiveness in confession, that is what I hope for while I write these words. But I know there isn’t; my conscience is relentless. My only resource is to do what everybody does, what man seems to have been carved to do since its conception as a species: evade. All I wish is that my brother won’t read this post.
He hears many interesting things, but, fleeting, they go almost as fast as they come; only death remains. Not even the reasons for all those deaths, or the names of the wars, or the approximate dates stay. Nothing but the pure and grotesque fact of so many deaths. Now as he looks into the past from the comfort of the future, time compresses, reality loses importance, and absurdity seems little more than mere words, words that not even use ink and paper anymore.
This post reproduces my review of the book “How to read a book: the classic guide to intelligent reading“, by Mortimer J. Adler and Dr. Charles Van Doren, posted a while back on Amazon. It is the recursive book I mention on a previous post called Teachers All Around.
I once played with the idea that I would not only read the Great Books of the Western World, but memorize them all. Of course, I was indulging myself in impossible dreams, but that has led me to a whole universe of thought (literally) that I had never dreamed existed: the Art of Memory.
I have always heard about Aristotle, Plato, Dante, Spinoza and Kant, but I had never thought that “normal” people should read them. They lay in History, and whatever they had contributed to society was already embedded in our everyday lives, having already influenced whoever did whatever had to be done to create the technological era we live in and the chaotic pseudo-civilised society we live in. As far as I was concerned, I didn’t have to study Pythagoras — all I needed to know was how to calculate the hypotenuse. In fact, all we need now is to press the correct button in a calculator or to use the right command in any commonplace programming language. I have always been a practical man. I do stuff. I don’t sit at home engrossed in armchair thinking. Why should I read such complex arcane books? Moreover, I knew I wouldn’t understand much even if I tried.
It is hard to pinpoint exactly how I got to Philosophy, even though it all began just a few years ago. Things weren’t good in the company (again) and I was consumed by unidentified feelings of anxiety (as always), so I finally took the courage, quit my scientific job and became just a policeman. I couldn’t keep living a life of lies, pretending I was internally what I appeared to be externally. All I knew was that I needed answers for questions I could hardly formulate.