Sunday, February 20, 2011

Day 31

Yesterday, I awoke with an incredibly powerful feeling that I understood something, for the first time, about 'how the pieces fit together' — the pieces of my life as a so-called 'philosopher' — the memory fragments down the years,
in cafes, bars, museums, underground railway stations, parks, gardens, canal side, river side, tramping the streets of Oxford and London, art galleries, lecture theatres, library seats, every desk I have ever known...

If a thought is worth writing down, it's worth writing on the back of a used envelope, on scrap paper, in the margins of a newspaper, on your wrist. I had been a philosophy student for four years, got my degree, before I ever thought of buying myself a notepad — a typist's dictation book, 180 pages spiral bound...
Lessons in Philosophy 1
But this isn't about the thoughts I had back then, deep though they may have been. This is about how important things are to me. But not in a materialist sense.

Those scraps of paper, they weren't just rubbish from the waste basket, they were documents which had already served a valuable purpose, and were now being recycled and given a new purpose. My computers are old, really old, they have a history which I know nothing about. They didn't come in shiny boxes with photos of yuppies surfing the Internet with inane grins on their faces. They have a meaning which goes beyond their utility, even beyond the fact that I love things for their utility and what that symbolizes.

I remember something else. I wrote the quoted words on a Psion 3c palmtop computer seven years ago, while I waited for one of my daughters (I can't remember which one!) to finish her swimming lesson. The very fact that, for once, I wasn't using a pen and paper sparked the memory cascade.

This is about thoughts I had yesterday. I haven't come to the point yet. But yesterday wasn't the day for writing this blog. Today, the powerful sense of epiphany has all but gone. But I still remember, and that's all that matters.

Last week, I wrote this about Heidegger and Levinas in my Editor's Introduction to Philosophy Pathways Issue 160:
Martin Jenkins' exposition of Heidegger on humanism, and Sim-Hui Tee's account of Levinas on the 'other', each shows the historical tradition of metaphysics in a less than favourable light. What metaphysicians have sought to do is, in the eyes of each of those original and radical thinkers, a form of desecration.

For Heidegger, it is the very world we inhabit has become a mere resource, the Greek philosopher Parmenides' sense of awe and mystery at the very presence of Being is almost impossible for us to recall, so lost are we in the world of beings and our project of gaining mastery through knowledge and technique. Heidegger's term 'productive metaphysics' sums up this form of thinking. For Levinas, the irresistible urge towards 'totalising' knowledge leads us to lose sight of the metaphysically fundamental ethical dimension of our nature, wherein the Other stands in a sacred space infinitely removed from our grasp, beyond all knowledge and control.

One might say that Heidegger emphasizes the solitude of the 'authentic' subject in touch with the Being of the universe, while for Levinas when I look out at the world the first thing I see is the 'face' of the other, the face that forbids murder, that reminds me of my perpetual ethical debt. Perhaps, the philosopher one feels more drawn to shows the kind of thinker you are, or aspire to be?
Yesterday morning, when I woke up, I finally understood the meaning of what I'd written. At the time, I was too busy with 101 details making sure that the e-journal was ready to send out. But that's the way it is with my job. Caught up in the needs of the moment, I allow myself to forget. Then I remember. I digest. I put things together. When I wrote my introduction, I wasn't ready to think the words, not in the way they needed to be thought. The words just came, as they always do.

I have been writing one paragraph per post (allowing for block quotes) not because I don't have more to say but as a way of putting a brake on my garrulousness. [18.10.15: paragraphs have been split up.] I find it too easy to write, and that can be a serious handicap for a philosopher. But today, remembering what I felt and thought yesterday, even though I can't think those thoughts or feel those feelings as I did then, I have to break my own rule — for the sake of getting this out into the open, while the memory is still fresh.

A couple of evenings after the Pathways issue went out, in the pub with a small group of my ex-evening class students, I was chatting with Brian Tee who took over my class a few years ago (no relation to Sim-Hui!) about the topic for next week. 'Can you think of something good to say about boredom?' Brian asked me with a sly grin. I already knew Brian had lots of good things to say about boredom but he was just testing me out. I said that it was necessary for philosophers to feel boredom, in a 'good' way, the sense of time stretching out, as you wait... 'for a breakthrough?' Brian interjected, No, I said, that makes it sound like a scientist waiting for inspiration. Like the famous story of the chemist trying to work out the structure of benzene who woke up the next morning with the answer after a dream about playful monkeys.

We kicked the topic of boredom around for a while, but didn't reach a firm conclusion. Boredom connects with laziness, something I know a lot about. I agreed with Brian that they're not the same, but they are connected in important ways. You've got to have the ability to be lazy (also in a 'good' way) in order to experience the philosopher's liberating kind of boredom.

Somehow that brought us on to Hubert Dreyfus' lectures on Moby Dick by Herman Melville. By this time, another of my old students, Angie, had joined in. I said that Moby Dick is one of the most philosophical novels ever written, which brought a few titters. No, I insisted, it was true. One aspect that make the novel so deep is the focus on details, the contrast between the precise art and science of whaling and the terrifying sublimity of the face of nature ('the whiteness of the whale'). While Melville's occasional remarks about philosophers come across as merely playful, ironic. It's the intense focus on things, the harpoons, the ropes, the oars, and the men, their idiosyncrasies and their idées fixes.

One of the first thoughts that came to me when I woke up yesterday morning was that this is really all about is patience, as you wait for the world to speak to you. The key is relaxed attentiveness. That's why Rodin's famous sculpture of 'The Thinker' is a travesty of the philosopher. The image is far more appropriate to the professional chess player, furiously cogitating, calculating hundreds or thousands of lines, the intense focus on the board reflected in the grandmaster's face.

A better image of the philosopher would be a lone figure on a river bank, fishing, attentive to every ripple in the water, ready to do what is necessary — ready for hours and even then the fish don't always come. I should have said this to Brian, because Brian loves fishing, or at least he used to when he had the time. Now he has a bookshop.

I have the time. I can wait. But my waiting is an attentive waiting, a respectful waiting. And, as I wait, I appreciate the deep mystery of things.