Seriously, I read my own work sometimes and am surprised at how many thoughts I have thunk. Yes, thunk. I write so much, I forget what I have said, and can almost read some of this as if for the first time.
This paper was sent to the then Dean of the Divinity School of the University of Chicago, who I was acquainted with as a very amiable, extremely intelligent, highly motivated and diligent person. I had asked for feedback with respect to a book proposal, and found myself writing this, which I think pretty much screamed that I did not understand the concept of a book proposal.
I like the work I did, but it was not what he committed to review, and I never heard back from him. He was and no doubt remains an extraordinarily busy man. I was surprised, honestly, he agreed to look at it at all.
The cynical part of me, though–and it has no food to nourish it here, to be clear–has wondered if part of the problem was my assertion at the outset that the Humanities ought to be useful, and that philosophical progress is both possible and desirable. These sorts of ideas create the intellectual equivalent of the vapors in modern academic environments. One can imagine women fainting and sensitive men hyperventilating in paper bags.
Humanistic Positivism? Has anyone coined that term? Google thinks not. Plant that flag on my intellectual 40 acres. We are plowing ahead with empirical Intuitionalism. We will sort the details out as we go. I have many ideas.
It is a good thing for my mental health that I spend most days surrounded by HVAC and data guys, carpet layers, drywallers, electricians. Their ignorance and small-mindedness–actually I feel the need to point out most of these folks are much smarter than you might imagine, and much smarter than a lot of college graduates in every way that matters–I find quite tolerable. The other kind–and I reiterate this is not directed at any individual–drive me up the fucking wall. Far better to literally BE up the fucking wall.
Shit: I’m whining. Breaking my own first rule. But you know that is the value of rules: they serve as way finders in this vast expanse of trackless desert we call Life. Something is true. In my system, the truth is that if you are feeling sorry for yourself, you are fucking up. Period.
Here is a question: do you want a Hitler or a Stalin or a Castro to tell you what to do, or are you willing to submit to the energy of your own sense of things, own sense of propriety? You will be bounded. As Bob Dylan put it in his Christian phase, you gotta serve somebody. The question is, will this happen by chance, or through an honest process of thought and reflection? Will you remain alive, or will you choose death? You have both options, in every moment of your life.