the problem and process

As I find so many times now that I have finally made time for Nietzsche in my study, he seems to have stolen the words of my life and travelled back in time to print them for me.

There’s a sort of frustration I find in reading him, because he steals my credit for my reinventing the wheel. Is he complete? No. Am I? Hardly - but I can be better where he dropped the ball, I can be more vigilant and bring compassion to the table where he drew lines in the sand. He makes the very mistakes that we, him and I, caution against.

I suppose I might very well find myself making those mistakes too, some day. Human, all to human, and all that. But until that day, when I do truly become a hypocrite, I’ll keep on keeping on with the energy I can muster.

I’m going to reproduce here an elegant passage from Beyond Good and Evil, my favourite text of his (ours?. I’ve found greatest success recently in personal expression and interpretation of my arguments than in presenting them sans emotion. I do not want this blog to become about me and my details, but perhaps I’ll have to concede a degree of self to the work. And why not - I concede myself entirely to it’s grasp every day, anyway.

In keeping with Nietzsche’s conscience, asking who the philosopher is as well as what the philosophy entails, this should rightly shine some light on, well, me.

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205

The perils in the way of the evolution of the philosopher are in truth so manifold today one may well doubt whether this fruit can still open at all. The compass and tower-building of the sciences has grown enormous, and therewith the probability has also grown enormous that the philosopher will become weary while still no more than a learner, or that he will let himself be stopped somewhere and ’specialize’: so that he will never reach his proper height, the height from which he can survey, look around and look down. Or that he will reach this height too late, when his best time is past and his best strength spent; or damaged, coarsened, degenerate, so that his view, his total value judgement, no longer means much. Perhaps is is the very refinement of his intellectual conscience which makes him linger on the way and arrive late; he fears he may be seduced into dilettantism, into becoming an insect with a thousand feet and a thousand antennae, he knows too well that one who has lost respect for himself can no longer command, can no longer lead as a man of knowledge either, unless he wants to becomes a great actor, a philosophical Cagliostro and pied piper of the spirit, in short a mis-leader. This is ultimately a question of taste even if it were not a question of conscience. In addition to this, so as to redouble his difficulties, there is the fact that the philosopher demands of himself a judgement, a Yes or No, not in regard to the sciences but in regard to life and the value of life - that he is reluctant to believe he has a right, to say nothing of a duty, to come to such a judgement, and has to find his way to the right and this faith only through the wildest - perhaps most disturbing and shattering - experiences, and often hesitating, doubting, and being struck dumb. Indeed, the mob has long confounded and confused the philosopher with something else, whether with the man of science or with the religiously exalted, dead to the sense, ‘dead to the world’ fanatic and drunkard of God; and today if one hears anyone commended for living ‘wisely’ or ‘like a philosopher’, it means hardly more than ‘prudently and apart’. Wisdom: that seems to the rabble to be a kind of flight, an artifice and means for getting oneself out of a dangerous game; but the genuine philosopher - as he seems to us, my friends? - lives ‘unphilisophically’ and ‘unwisely’, above all impudently, and bears the burden and duty of a hundred attempts and temptations of life - he risks himself constantly, he plays the dangerous game…

~ translation by R. J. Holligdale

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I don’t expect everyone to be up to snuff on this sort of english. It’s not nearly as archaic as Hume, thankfully, but it’s quickly noticeable that this employs a sort of timing, rhythm and language that’s almost lyrical, and this sort of song will seem mongrel to deaf eyes.

So if you spend the time to work through the passage, and can’t find it accessible, you’re likely in the majority, and shouldn’t feel dumb. At least not for this reason. Can you read Greek either? Language is language, and one dialect or another of a particular language can be equally as difficult as the next, if not worse, due to misunderstanding or poor assumption.

I’m going to comment and talk about some of this passage to aid in the explanation in a bit. First, I want to elaborate on the reason I’m making this a page and a section all of it’s own. Recent back and forth talks with Angel in the comment sections have been immensely beneficial to this site, and my writings - to anyone reading the posts, it’s like the classroom discussion to a lecture. It’s excellent supplement and better reading than the inane posts that inspire the talks. I thank her and thank her again for taking the time to question and rage at me - I prefer dialogue above all else as a medium of communication, and for every word I write, I’ve spoken a hundred more. It took over four months for the first beneficial conversation to develop from this site, and one thing that became apparent is that conversation developed out of curiousity for the who in me, not the what I stand for.

I wish more of you would leave the self-consciousness at the door when you came in. Even if you get little out of it yourself, if you see any merit in these ideas, you can know that you’re aiding the explanation and accessibility of them.

I worry that students of life are no different from students at school - damn the subject taught, it all comes down to how likable or skilled the teacher is. As hateful as such an ignorant and self-defeating proposition this is for one’s heart and mind, I continue to watch you gamblers make this silly bet. A good man can and will fail you; a good idea, by design, cannot.

My compromise then becomes this post, this section, this wall o’ text. This is a look into my window, this passage from one of the greats that so disturbingly well describes my problem and process. I cannot claim to be inspired by it, for I was this version of me before I’d ever read anything like it - I claim instead that it explains me with an eloquence I pray I deserve, hopefully demystifying some of my writing.

So what is he saying then? What is he getting at?

The perils in the way of the evolution of the philosopher are in truth so manifold today one may well doubt whether this fruit can still open at all. The compass and tower-building of the sciences has grown enormous, and therewith the probability has also grown enormous that the philosopher will become weary while still no more than a learner,…

There are so many barriers that stand in the way of a thinker, nowadays. As I’ve said in many posts, this is a practical world in that science has become a religion of sorts. If we can’t chart it, graph it, and mash it into an equation, there is no room for it. Why? Because should we deal with intangibles, someone might not get it. Someone might not agree. Someone could be left out, or feel dumb. We’re all special little twinkling stars, and we must uphold a system that celebrates none, and fucks over everyone equally. Those that exit the maze with fame and fortune are resented and marginalized, photographed like wildlife and catalogued in 65 magazines each week. Those that die in the maze are blamed for their failure to secure a home and a job, to tow the line. And the bulk of the populace, the majority and status quo, hide desperately from their reality, selling themselves to a system that doesn’t work in fear of being asked to design a new one. We’d rather go without, at this point, than develop something better.

We’re tired of it all, and we lack the energy to start over. We’re so hungry and weak we can’t hunt to feed ourselves. It’s tragic beyond description.

And it’s this sort of awareness of the obstacles and tragedy and breathtaking scope of the task of the philosopher, of the thinker and feeler, that makes him weary, and drives him from his path. Human, all to human.

…or that he will let himself be stopped somewhere and ’specialize’: so that he will never reach his proper height, the height from which he can survey, look around and look down. Or that he will reach this height too late, when his best time is past and his best strength spent; or damaged, coarsened, degenerate, so that his view, his total value judgement, no longer means much.

To specialize, to select, is to pick from the display of the department store, rather than designing one’s own decision. To use a trite example - suppose one should very much desire a beautiful coffee mug. Close your eyes and imagine the very best mug you can: Does it have a decorative handle? What words would it have upon it’s surface? What material would it be made of? Simple, easy questions that would be juggled with ease by the mind of a child - tend to plague us modern men and women, us grown ups and adults.

First, to decide anything, at all, is to open oneself up to criticism. “That design is awful! You’re an idiot!” Secondly, to imagine at all, nowadays, is to return unopened the role of creator, and instead demote oneself to an interior decorator of the mind. We design by cycling through what we’ve already seen, combining, not creating.

Thus, to specialize in anything is to forsake everything else - we should all be dabblers, not in the superficial, stupid sense of the word today, but in a better sense, in a way that is not so compartmentalized. Not too long ago, before the sadistic assembly line, one did not build a table leg on the line, but one would build the whole damn table, and for that matter, could build ANY sort of table.

Specialization is complacency with self - I’m a homemaker, so I no longer have to be an intellectual. I’m a professional, so I no longer have to focus on fatherhood. We specialize into so many terms and labels, we lose sight of what labels used to mean - by sheer attrition we have drowned what once was great and glorious ideas and concepts in a sea of semantics.

To be a man, instead of a tough guy, a sensitive guy, an artsy guy, a wimp, an asshole. To be a parent, not a single dad, a gay mom, a working couple. To be an athlete, rather than a forward, a pitcher, a downhill skiier. To be a craftsman, rather than a plumber, a tilesetter, an electrician.

These categories used to be measured in degree. A good man, a bad man - we made these distinctions and judgements based on completeness, diversity, dabbling in personality and strengths. But through dissembling these grand concepts into such specifics, niche markets, we somehow all become equal - special and different and individually fucked up in our importantly individual ways.

We don’t feel we need to improve to any standard but our own - but in this way all moralities, all standards become equal, and equally bankrupt of soul. This develops awful, useless, and half-dead human beings. It’s because I love you that I need you to be better, to be worthy of my love. Be worthy of anyone’s love, at all!

To look down, as Nietzsche emphasizes, is to become the god you can become, to realize your potential. It’s not condescension. It’s opportunity - you cannot help pull someone up from below, much as you cannot push against a rope. Anyone, at any level of the climb, has this philosopher’s duty to look below and help those within reach.

Continue the climbing metaphor, to take a climb slowly, without risk, is to weather one’s hands and heart, erode those tools of the soul, exhaust oneself completely. He becomes irrelevant, a thing of the past alive in the present, a relic. He cannot relate to man. At a certain point, the enlightened do secure understanding so profound they cannot be understood any more.

If you decided to swim round the world for cancer, or AIDS, or some other charitable cause, after a certain point you’re no longer a beacon for hope, and no longer newsworthy, and you become some idiot wading in the ocean.

Perhaps is is the very refinement of his intellectual conscience which makes him linger on the way and arrive late; he fears he may be seduced into dilettantism, into becoming an insect with a thousand feet and a thousand antennae, he knows too well that one who has lost respect for himself can no longer command, can no longer lead as a man of knowledge either, unless he wants to becomes a great actor, a philosophical Cagliostro and pied piper of the spirit, in short a mis-leader. This is ultimately a question of taste even if it were not a question of conscience.

I quoted Nietzsche in a post called stigmergy and friendship earlier, and it explains this next part well - “…to the student of applied psychology, who, though knowing all the answers, cannot make friends.”

It also goes back to the explanation just above, talking about the idiot in the ocean. We must rise WITH our class, not out of it. I cannot bear an infinite spirituality and transcendence from this world - I have no faith at all that anyone else would take the time to chart the maps of where I’m traveling.

But then, I wouldn’t ask anyone else to do it. This is what’s meant by, “This is ultimately a question of taste even if it were not a question of conscience.” As irresponsible and offensive to one’s inner voice as it would be, to immaturely leave an important task to another out of laziness or fear; even if it were not so reprehensible, my sense of manners would compel me to this course anyways.

Good taste all things, a subtlety to contrast the coarseness of the irrelevant, a feminine softness to guide a masculine practicality.

The pied piper, the mis-leader: these are my fears most of all. I cannot bear to convince, persuade, or beguile. I won’t sell you a thing, if I’m right, and the product is worth the purchase all by itself, then it becomes my task to make the product known. I’ll give it exposure, and I’ll lend it explanation. But if you can’t see a “why”, I won’t give you one - I truly believe if I can find the right way to illuminate it and express it, that it does have a why, within it, for everyone.

In addition to this, so as to redouble his difficulties, there is the fact that the philosopher demands of himself a judgement, a Yes or No, not in regard to the sciences but in regard to life and the value of life - that he is reluctant to believe he has a right, to say nothing of a duty, to come to such a judgement, and has to find his way to the right and this faith only through the wildest - perhaps most disturbing and shattering - experiences, and often hesitating, doubting, and being struck dumb.

This is my nightly doubt. My scathing self-criticism and frustration with the absurdity and indefensibility of my positions. There is an analytical, strategic side of me, the chess player and competitor, the frustrated child that cannot express my philosophy in such frivolous terms - and yet, these stupid terms are the languages of this world, and the half-wit mumblings that criticise, dismiss, and marginalize my message. I’m all too aware of the scope of my demands, and it’s so difficult to keep a straight face and demand it anyways.

These experiences and rough nights and messy dreams and melancholy I express; these are my qualifications, they are my pedigree. I would never frame my papers - in this exercise, this blog, I frame instead my inner life. One’s documentation belongs in the fire with the rest of one’s kindling; foundation for the flames that do the real work of forging us into who we need to be, for ourselves, for our children!

Indeed, the mob has long confounded and confused the philosopher with something else, whether with the man of science or with the religiously exalted, dead to the sense, ‘dead to the world’ fanatic and drunkard of God;…

This is the existentialism, the sense of something else - our TV sets, our drug addictions, our one-night regrets, our crimes, our escapism. I don’t suggest agency or intention; I argue it’s a case of picking one’s poison. I don’t think you were taught how to design and create. I do know you were taught to pick and choose of what was offered, and I damn sure know that what’s offered is a fucking mess.

This is what I fight with my posts on the silly and the superfluous, the aesthetic and artful, the full and fulsome. There is SO. MUCH. MORE. It doesn’t have to be like it is.

…and today if one hears anyone commended for living ‘wisely’ or ‘like a philosopher’, it means hardly more than ‘prudently and apart’. Wisdom: that seems to the rabble to be a kind of flight, an artifice and means for getting oneself out of a dangerous game; but the genuine philosopher - as he seems to us, my friends? - lives ‘unphilisophically’ and ‘unwisely’, above all impudently, and bears the burden and duty of a hundred attempts and temptations of life - he risks himself constantly, he plays the dangerous game…

This is the mistake we make, to confuse genius with ingenuity. To pervert the word ‘idea’ into something that fits our time/money, cause/effect formula. This is what it means to live unreasonably! - for the reasonable man would acclimatize himself to his environment, and not strike against the grain. This world depends on unreasonable men and women for any progress at all!

Risk oneself, doubt one’s self. Become another person, and then another. If the overzealous sculptor chips away all through the night, the statue becomes rubble, but the art is evermore just as alive, in concept and idea, in the mind of the artist himself. This is the soul. Stop confusing the inculcations of the ego with the dreams of the heart.

You really aren’t your six-pack, your law degree, your three kids and successful marriage. You’re you, the only player allowed in the dangerous game. The rest, the facts, the sense that you’ve made of it all is just the proof of an unfinished artwork - the chips on your shoulder begging to be hacked away.

Live unwisely. Feel, and think, and risk, and fail! FAIL! Jump headlong into your inadequacies and make good friends with those critics.

Every stone cast at you is another excellent tool to sharper yourself against. Invite the onslaught.

I’ve been writing all night. And every word is another opportunity for your untempered will and unpracticed attention span to fail you. Does what I say have no value? Is it not worth the explanation?

I can hope it does, and it is. This is my problem and process; this is me, pitifully elaborated upon. This is a concession I absolutely hate to make. To explain it, and give the Way a name and a song, is to seemingly overcomplicate it to the tune of 3,443 words and several hours of typing.

And yet, if I didn’t try, and didn’t bother, I could not at all live with myself. Nothing I’ve found matters more, nothing better deserved my hands and my heart. “Suppose truth be a woman - and why not?,” he wrote. I love her like I loved her, that truly someone, that true-ly someone.

~ Driz