simply too
young
for philosophy, he says. Too blithe. We haven’t yet run up against
life’s difficulties
, he says. Against the
tragedy of life
. You can see that in our faces, he says. We know nothing of
life’s calamities
—of madness, suicide, all that.
In a sense, our indifference to philosophy is a kind of
liberation
, he says. It is lightness itself. We do not know the
gravity
of thought. We feel no philosophical weight. We walk like astronauts on the moon, in great blithe leaps, in huge bounds. Nothing keeps us to the surface of our studies. Nothing holds us down.
Once, it was possible to learn things, and to be shaped by your learning, he says. Once, to be a student meant to be
formed
by what you learned. To let it enter your soul. But today?
We’re drowning in openness, he says. In our sense of the possible. We’re ready to take anything in—to learn about anything, and therefore about
nothing
. Everything is available to us, and therefore
nothing
is available to us. Everything is at our disposal, and therefore
nothing
is at our disposal. We are infinitely open-minded, which is to say, infinitely closed-minded.
Our sense of our own
potential
—he sees it in us. Our sense of our
youth
. Our belief that the world lies
open before us
. Don’t we understand that it is our very sense of
potential
that is the problem? That it is our very sense of
youth
that is the problem? That it is our sense that the world
lies open before us
that is the problem?
• • •
There was a time when learning awoke unknown desires, he says. Desires for what lay outside you, outside your grasp.
There was a time when students knew how to
reach
, and that they had to reach.
And now? Before our desires even coalesce, they are answered. Before our desires become desires, they are satisfied. Our desires are met before we even have them.
There’s no yearning, for us. No sense that something lies beyond.
Joy, joy, joy, tears of joy
: that’s what Pascal had inscribed on his posthumous memorial, Wittgenstein says. Those who know nothing of grief can know nothing of joy, either.
Ede, hand in the air. Wittgenstein ignores him.
He knows how we live, he says. He knows how we
do not live
.
Drinking doubles and trebles at bars in which we cannot hear ourselves speak. Drinking doubles and trebles because we have
absolutely nothing to say
to one another.
We drink because we do not live, he says. Because we have no idea what it means to live.
He’s heard the thump-thump of our music. He’s heard our drunken laughter.
We’re guzzlers, he says. Devourers. Cambridge is a trough, and we are its pigs.
How disgusting we are! How
filthy
—morally speaking!
Actually
speaking.
We’re stupid, he says. Shallow. We’re without soul. Without
insight
.
Do we
know
it?, he wonders. Do we have any idea of it? Do we
sense
what we lack? Do we understand that life’s seriousness lies far beyond us? Is that why we drink ourselves into insensibility? Why we
deaden
ourselves? Is that why we half destroy ourselves, and leave the contents of our stomachs on the courtyard flagstones?
No, we have no sense of what we lack, he says. Life’s seriousness means nothing to us.
Pints of Weissbier in the
Free Press
.
KIRWIN A: Why does Wittgenstein think we’re such idiots? We got into Cambridge, for fuck’s sake! That’s got to count for something.
MULBERRY: Well—
he’s
obviously suffered for his thought. Now it’s
our
turn.
KIRWIN B: But why should we bother to suffer? It’s not as if he’s a great
advert
for the philosophical life.
ME: Maybe we
are
a bit too proud. Or stupid. Or whatever else it is he says. Maybe we
do
need some discipline.
EDE: You, Peters, are a masochist. I don’t mean a sexual masochist. You’re a
thought
masochist, which is much worse.
MULBERRY: Peters thinks Wittgenstein is our very own genius. I’ve seen the way you look at him, Peters! Like a swooning schoolgirl!
ME: And what if he
is
a genius?
KIRWIN A: I
young
for philosophy, he says. Too blithe. We haven’t yet run up against
life’s difficulties
, he says. Against the
tragedy of life
. You can see that in our faces, he says. We know nothing of
life’s calamities
—of madness, suicide, all that.
In a sense, our indifference to philosophy is a kind of
liberation
, he says. It is lightness itself. We do not know the
gravity
of thought. We feel no philosophical weight. We walk like astronauts on the moon, in great blithe leaps, in huge bounds. Nothing keeps us to the surface of our studies. Nothing holds us down.
Once, it was possible to learn things, and to be shaped by your learning, he says. Once, to be a student meant to be
formed
by what you learned. To let it enter your soul. But today?
We’re drowning in openness, he says. In our sense of the possible. We’re ready to take anything in—to learn about anything, and therefore about
nothing
. Everything is available to us, and therefore
nothing
is available to us. Everything is at our disposal, and therefore
nothing
is at our disposal. We are infinitely open-minded, which is to say, infinitely closed-minded.
Our sense of our own
potential
—he sees it in us. Our sense of our
youth
. Our belief that the world lies
open before us
. Don’t we understand that it is our very sense of
potential
that is the problem? That it is our very sense of
youth
that is the problem? That it is our sense that the world
lies open before us
that is the problem?
• • •
There was a time when learning awoke unknown desires, he says. Desires for what lay outside you, outside your grasp.
There was a time when students knew how to
reach
, and that they had to reach.
And now? Before our desires even coalesce, they are answered. Before our desires become desires, they are satisfied. Our desires are met before we even have them.
There’s no yearning, for us. No sense that something lies beyond.
Joy, joy, joy, tears of joy
: that’s what Pascal had inscribed on his posthumous memorial, Wittgenstein says. Those who know nothing of grief can know nothing of joy, either.
Ede, hand in the air. Wittgenstein ignores him.
He knows how we live, he says. He knows how we
do not live
.
Drinking doubles and trebles at bars in which we cannot hear ourselves speak. Drinking doubles and trebles because we have
absolutely nothing to say
to one another.
We drink because we do not live, he says. Because we have no idea what it means to live.
He’s heard the thump-thump of our music. He’s heard our drunken laughter.
We’re guzzlers, he says. Devourers. Cambridge is a trough, and we are its pigs.
How disgusting we are! How
filthy
—morally speaking!
Actually
speaking.
We’re stupid, he says. Shallow. We’re without soul. Without
insight
.
Do we
know
it?, he wonders. Do we have any idea of it? Do we
sense
what we lack? Do we understand that life’s seriousness lies far beyond us? Is that why we drink ourselves into insensibility? Why we
deaden
ourselves? Is that why we half destroy ourselves, and leave the contents of our stomachs on the courtyard flagstones?
No, we have no sense of what we lack, he says. Life’s seriousness means nothing to us.
Pints of Weissbier in the
Free Press
.
KIRWIN A: Why does Wittgenstein think we’re such idiots? We got into Cambridge, for fuck’s sake! That’s got to count for something.
MULBERRY: Well—
he’s
obviously suffered for his thought. Now it’s
our
turn.
KIRWIN B: But why should we bother to suffer? It’s not as if he’s a great
advert
for the philosophical life.
ME: Maybe we
are
a bit too proud. Or stupid. Or whatever else it is he says. Maybe we
do
need some discipline.
EDE: You, Peters, are a masochist. I don’t mean a sexual masochist. You’re a
thought
masochist, which is much worse.
MULBERRY: Peters thinks Wittgenstein is our very own genius. I’ve seen the way you look at him, Peters! Like a swooning schoolgirl!
ME: And what if he
is
a genius?
KIRWIN A: I
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