KI in a year
I would like to shout this out, very loudly
I have evolved
There.
I used to be a semi-empiricist, with a generous dose of naïve realism thrown in. Now I rather think it is an impossible combination. It is difficult not to be a naïve realist: on some level all of us are naïve realists, so it’s not really fair to count that in. Either all days are holy or none are.
I believe I subscribe to existentialism.
It is a very sneaky way to announce my that I do not need to really justify my belief, because to be existentialist is to deviate in any form of belief in which one can flourish – and therefore not have to justify the belief. Some things are left best to that smoggy netherwhere where things can either stay vaguely undescribed or be told in a series of bestsellers, where the money makes it worth the trouble.
Therefore it goes without saying that I like Søren Kierkegaard better than I like John Locke or even that idiot George Berkely. And you can see that I have grown aggressively opiniated too. Also I throw names and philosophik around like so many authoritative gems: you see I have learnt to cheat.
This cheating has become a growing necessity in the space of my mind because the more I read, the more I become aware of how little I plumb the depths of each famous philosopher. Most of these dead white men were bloody interesting and I have had so little time to even glance at them, so I merely skim the surface of each for my meagre purposes – assignments and all that. The worst of it is that my limited memory makes it difficult for me to remember even the little I have read. To know the basic concepts and use the thinker’s name in reference to it is, what I am told, very welcome in examinations: on several levels in my conscience it refuses to be dislodged from the impression of being an act of dishonesty. Is this dishonesty unavoidable? This might put into perspective some of my essays throughout the year, in which I semi-consciously make it policy to never drop names if possible (although I have to confess that in some cases, the temptation to mention Descartes swam strong).
And yet I have to thank KI for opening up my mind to these foreign names, foreign thoughts and foreign concepts. Descartes and Darwin were as meaningless and as distant as the stars before I was made to be introduced to what they were about: before that, all I did was glance briefly at them from afar and forget them again instantly. I was never interested in the development of astronomy or plate tectonics or washing machines until I ran into the great huge block of ignorance revealed by the roving torchlight of KI. Aristophanes, John Wallace, the Book of Kells, synaesthesia and dadaism were discovered along the way: I was merely dragged frantically in the dust by a great mad desire to know more – irresistible as the tides, barely confounded by the restrictions of time and circumstance. How glorious. How mundane. How frustrating. And I remember so little of what I read.
Which is probably why most of what I do retain comes from discussion. I am fortunate enough to belong to a circle of close friends who all take KI: we gather regularly (usually on weekends) to mug, jaw, eat and argue. And we talk about things: the variability and reliability of personality typology, the fundamentals of poetry appreciation, quantum physics (usually this involves two particular people explaining things to the rest of us, who stare gormlessly and try to understand), popular culture. We recommend books to each other, compare notes, thrash out essay outlines, and get nothing done. One or two prominent characters might get torn to shreds in a perfunctory comment. Small acts of violence might take place as querulous sensibilities disagree. But it is always fun, and it is always enlightening. Although the best discussions more commonly take place between two or three people only – this usually happens at least once a week, compared to the big huge group discussions, which are really rather rare – I have become increasingly accustomed to finding knowledge and inquiry in everything, and to exist to look at the world through jaded eyes wearing rose-tinted glasses is the best thing about being.
I have evolved
There.
I used to be a semi-empiricist, with a generous dose of naïve realism thrown in. Now I rather think it is an impossible combination. It is difficult not to be a naïve realist: on some level all of us are naïve realists, so it’s not really fair to count that in. Either all days are holy or none are.
I believe I subscribe to existentialism.
It is a very sneaky way to announce my that I do not need to really justify my belief, because to be existentialist is to deviate in any form of belief in which one can flourish – and therefore not have to justify the belief. Some things are left best to that smoggy netherwhere where things can either stay vaguely undescribed or be told in a series of bestsellers, where the money makes it worth the trouble.
Therefore it goes without saying that I like Søren Kierkegaard better than I like John Locke or even that idiot George Berkely. And you can see that I have grown aggressively opiniated too. Also I throw names and philosophik around like so many authoritative gems: you see I have learnt to cheat.
This cheating has become a growing necessity in the space of my mind because the more I read, the more I become aware of how little I plumb the depths of each famous philosopher. Most of these dead white men were bloody interesting and I have had so little time to even glance at them, so I merely skim the surface of each for my meagre purposes – assignments and all that. The worst of it is that my limited memory makes it difficult for me to remember even the little I have read. To know the basic concepts and use the thinker’s name in reference to it is, what I am told, very welcome in examinations: on several levels in my conscience it refuses to be dislodged from the impression of being an act of dishonesty. Is this dishonesty unavoidable? This might put into perspective some of my essays throughout the year, in which I semi-consciously make it policy to never drop names if possible (although I have to confess that in some cases, the temptation to mention Descartes swam strong).
And yet I have to thank KI for opening up my mind to these foreign names, foreign thoughts and foreign concepts. Descartes and Darwin were as meaningless and as distant as the stars before I was made to be introduced to what they were about: before that, all I did was glance briefly at them from afar and forget them again instantly. I was never interested in the development of astronomy or plate tectonics or washing machines until I ran into the great huge block of ignorance revealed by the roving torchlight of KI. Aristophanes, John Wallace, the Book of Kells, synaesthesia and dadaism were discovered along the way: I was merely dragged frantically in the dust by a great mad desire to know more – irresistible as the tides, barely confounded by the restrictions of time and circumstance. How glorious. How mundane. How frustrating. And I remember so little of what I read.
Which is probably why most of what I do retain comes from discussion. I am fortunate enough to belong to a circle of close friends who all take KI: we gather regularly (usually on weekends) to mug, jaw, eat and argue. And we talk about things: the variability and reliability of personality typology, the fundamentals of poetry appreciation, quantum physics (usually this involves two particular people explaining things to the rest of us, who stare gormlessly and try to understand), popular culture. We recommend books to each other, compare notes, thrash out essay outlines, and get nothing done. One or two prominent characters might get torn to shreds in a perfunctory comment. Small acts of violence might take place as querulous sensibilities disagree. But it is always fun, and it is always enlightening. Although the best discussions more commonly take place between two or three people only – this usually happens at least once a week, compared to the big huge group discussions, which are really rather rare – I have become increasingly accustomed to finding knowledge and inquiry in everything, and to exist to look at the world through jaded eyes wearing rose-tinted glasses is the best thing about being.
posted by the zen thing at 5:30 AM
3 Comments:
because to be existentialist is to deviate in any form of belief in which one can flourish – and therefore not have to justify the belief.
That's not Kierkegaard. That's Nietzsche and Sartre. Kierkegaard bases his belief on a Christian framework. Sartre and Nietzsche are those who defy reason.
I'm afraid that when I talked about Kierkegaard I never meant that I subscribed wholly to his beliefs (as I seem to have implied): What I meant was that Kierkegaard was my introduction into existentialism, and therefore remains my utter favourite, although the ideology nominally resembles more of something in Satre and in rebellion against Kant (also nominally, but it'll take too long to explain). Tragically I haven't got to Nietzsche yet and am therefore unable to comment about him.
But what I find about liking Kierkegaard is that I like him while still disagreeing (nominally, again!) with him on many points, especially his assumptions on religion. More importantly, many of his fundamental arguments about things such as paradox faith sound rather like an echo of my pagan adolescence: he's the one I can identify with most even if he argues in a framework more alien to me than total absurdism. This is unlike what rises in my throat when I consider George Berkely.
Also, to follow my own set of unidentified beliefs does not equal defying reason: this is an assumption that has to be clarified.
Thank you for the comment. You're the first comment I've seen on this blog. How did you find it?
afterword: when I mentioned 'the' ideology, I meant, eh, my ideology. Just so.
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