Kant's views on ethics and duty to the interpretation of religion. Kant was so impressed with the work that he not only agreed to meet with Fichte but encouraged its publication.
Because of some curious mishap, probably a marketing ploy of the publisher, the Critique appeared anonymously. The work was so brilliant that critics and the reading public mistook it for a new work by Kant himself. Ultimately, Kant was forced to make a public statement that it was not he who was the author of this excellent manuscript but a very talented young man named Fichte. Kant's praise ensured Fichte's future in philosophy, and a year and a half thereafter he was offered a professorship at the University of Jena.
"That," Philip looked up from his notes with an ecstatic look on his face and then jabbed the air with an awkward show of enthusiasm, "that is what I call a debut!" No students looked up or gave a sign of registering Philip's brief awkward display of enthusiasm. If he felt discouraged by his audience's unresponsiveness, Philip did not show it and, unperturbed, continued:
And now consider something closer to your hearts--athletic debuts. Who can forget the debut of Chris Evert, Tracy Austin, or Michael Chang, who won grand-slam professional tennis tournaments at fifteen or sixteen? Or the teenaged chess prodigies Bobby Fischer or Paul Morphy? Or think of Jose Raoul Capablanca, who won the chess championship of Cuba at the age of eleven.
Finally, I want to turn to a literary debut--the most brilliant literary debut of all time, a man in his midtwenties who blazed onto the literary landscape with a magnificent novel...
Here, Philip stopped in order to build the suspense and looked up, his countenance shining with confidence. He felt assured of what he was doing--that was apparent. Julius watched in disbelief. What was Philip expecting to find? The students on the edge of their seats, trembling with curiosity, each murmuring, "Who was this literary prodigy?"
Julius, in his fifth-row seat, swiveled his head to survey the auditorium: glazed eyes everywhere, students slumped in chairs, doo-dling, poring over newspapers, crossword puzzles. To the left, a student stretched out asleep over two chairs. To the right, two students at the end of his row embraced in a long kiss. In the row directly in front of him, two boys elbowed each other as they leered upward, toward the back of the room. Despite his curiosity, Julius did not turn to follow their gaze--probably they were staring up some woman's skirt--and turned his attention back to Philip.
And who was the prodigy? (Philip droned on.) His name was Thomas Mann. When he was your age, yes, your age, he began writing a masterpiece, a glorious novel called Buddenbrooks published when he was only twenty-six years old. Thomas Mann, as I hope and pray you know, went on to become a towering figure in the twentieth-century world of letters and was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature." (Here Philip spelled M-a-n-n and B-u-d-d-e-n-b-r-o-o-k-s to his blackboard scribe.) Buddenbrooks, published in 1901, traced the life of one family, a German burgher family, through four generations and all the associated vicissitudes of the life cycle.
Now what does this have to do with philosophy and with the real subject of today's lecture? As I promised, I have strayed a bit but only in the service of returning to the core with greater vigor.
Julius heard rustling in the auditorium and the sound of footsteps. The two elbowing voyeurs directly in front of Julius noisily collected their belongings and left the hall. The embracing students at the end of the row had departed, and even the student assigned to the blackboard had vanished.
Philip continued:
To me, the most remarkable passages in Buddenbrooks come late in the novel as the protagonist, the paterfamilias, old Thomas Buddenbrooks, approaches death. One is astounded by a writer in his early twenties having such insight and such sensibility to issues
Because of some curious mishap, probably a marketing ploy of the publisher, the Critique appeared anonymously. The work was so brilliant that critics and the reading public mistook it for a new work by Kant himself. Ultimately, Kant was forced to make a public statement that it was not he who was the author of this excellent manuscript but a very talented young man named Fichte. Kant's praise ensured Fichte's future in philosophy, and a year and a half thereafter he was offered a professorship at the University of Jena.
"That," Philip looked up from his notes with an ecstatic look on his face and then jabbed the air with an awkward show of enthusiasm, "that is what I call a debut!" No students looked up or gave a sign of registering Philip's brief awkward display of enthusiasm. If he felt discouraged by his audience's unresponsiveness, Philip did not show it and, unperturbed, continued:
And now consider something closer to your hearts--athletic debuts. Who can forget the debut of Chris Evert, Tracy Austin, or Michael Chang, who won grand-slam professional tennis tournaments at fifteen or sixteen? Or the teenaged chess prodigies Bobby Fischer or Paul Morphy? Or think of Jose Raoul Capablanca, who won the chess championship of Cuba at the age of eleven.
Finally, I want to turn to a literary debut--the most brilliant literary debut of all time, a man in his midtwenties who blazed onto the literary landscape with a magnificent novel...
Here, Philip stopped in order to build the suspense and looked up, his countenance shining with confidence. He felt assured of what he was doing--that was apparent. Julius watched in disbelief. What was Philip expecting to find? The students on the edge of their seats, trembling with curiosity, each murmuring, "Who was this literary prodigy?"
Julius, in his fifth-row seat, swiveled his head to survey the auditorium: glazed eyes everywhere, students slumped in chairs, doo-dling, poring over newspapers, crossword puzzles. To the left, a student stretched out asleep over two chairs. To the right, two students at the end of his row embraced in a long kiss. In the row directly in front of him, two boys elbowed each other as they leered upward, toward the back of the room. Despite his curiosity, Julius did not turn to follow their gaze--probably they were staring up some woman's skirt--and turned his attention back to Philip.
And who was the prodigy? (Philip droned on.) His name was Thomas Mann. When he was your age, yes, your age, he began writing a masterpiece, a glorious novel called Buddenbrooks published when he was only twenty-six years old. Thomas Mann, as I hope and pray you know, went on to become a towering figure in the twentieth-century world of letters and was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature." (Here Philip spelled M-a-n-n and B-u-d-d-e-n-b-r-o-o-k-s to his blackboard scribe.) Buddenbrooks, published in 1901, traced the life of one family, a German burgher family, through four generations and all the associated vicissitudes of the life cycle.
Now what does this have to do with philosophy and with the real subject of today's lecture? As I promised, I have strayed a bit but only in the service of returning to the core with greater vigor.
Julius heard rustling in the auditorium and the sound of footsteps. The two elbowing voyeurs directly in front of Julius noisily collected their belongings and left the hall. The embracing students at the end of the row had departed, and even the student assigned to the blackboard had vanished.
Philip continued:
To me, the most remarkable passages in Buddenbrooks come late in the novel as the protagonist, the paterfamilias, old Thomas Buddenbrooks, approaches death. One is astounded by a writer in his early twenties having such insight and such sensibility to issues
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