Personal Style

My concept of philosophy has changed significantly since I first became interested in the matter. Arrogance originally drew me to philosophy, just as it did to physics, as the subjects of greatest difficulty and greatest profundity. I considered philosophy a sort of natural superior to every other field, one which concerned itself with knowledge and morality as such, and thus dictated the sole ways in which any other investigation, or for that matter any other effort, could succeed. Nowadays, I view philosophy instead as the progenitor of humanity's greatest errors. There can be no error more pernicious than one which is applied to every action, to every belief; similarly, there can be no more deceptive idea than one intimately bound to an important, powerful truth. A person who seeks profound truth risks profound error, and places much else at risk meanwhile: the same skills and insights which allow one to grasp reality allow one to manipulate and misinterpret it. Nevertheless, there should be someone willing to take such risks, for a mistake is better made early, by one adventurous thinker, than by all humanity at once.

The virtues of a good philosopher are unusual and difficult ones, and it is almost paradoxical that honesty and awareness be vital in those who so effectively (and so inadvertently) deceive. Self-knowledge becomes a necessity in philosophy, because arrogance or conceit is a prerequisite. What knowledge of myself I possess tells me that I ought to reject objectivity (and even more a stance, or claim of objectivity), as something foreign to my personality. I never find my way to truth via objectivity (that is, via disinterested, calm judgment), but rather by way of fantasy, guesswork, inspiration, obsession, and cleverness. It's not that philosophy cannot be done disinterestedly, just that my own has been thoroughly personal. In particular, I have had to accept that a philosopher is a person who deceives, who cannot help but create deception, for the sake of truth; honesty in my case is not a matter of saying nothing but the facts, but in trying to account for my own appearances, in trying never to appear what I am not... and in never claiming to have an idea so true it cannot lead astray.

This is one of the reasons why having a personal style of writing matters to me. I want to make it clear that what I write is inextricably bound up with who I am. I will not take the usual route of developing a professional style which makes the author unobtrusive. It is an ideal of writing, and a goal of many styles, to make it seem that the idea writes itself. This in a way allows the idea to pass from mind to mind without resistance; in this ideal, the thesis is everything. For me, however, other things, related to the presented ideas without being points themselves, are also important: the process of creating an idea, the consequences it has wrought in my life, the mindset which brought it into being, the tender, specific affections and honors bestowed on it... In some cases a part of this milieu is more important than the idea itself. What I really want to do, though, is make myself evident in my writing.

The reason for that desire is that I am, often to my dismay, naturally reticent and unrevealing. I feel that the less time I have to consider a response, the less expressive it is of me, and that my most immediate responses can also be my most misleading ones. I'm nigh incapable of holding a deep discussion face-to-face, and on any emotional matter I have to articulate my thoughts very slowly and haltingly. I can be completely honest and sincere, but if the conversation is brisk, only a small part of my personality will ever show through. Even were I less repressed, there would not be much of a connection between my natural actions in a social setting, and the motivations, emotions, and perceptions which have the greatest, longest influence on my life.

On the other hand, I feel I can express myself very well, which is to say very fully, when I have a long period of time to think about what I write (whether or not I remember the process of writing). I'm particularly proud of this journal as a whole (its insane period notwithstanding) for containing some near-ideal records of moods, thoughts and traits which would otherwise be completely hidden; some of these records are particularly precious, for concerning states of mind which I no longer experience, and parts of my life which are irretrievably past. In feeling that this should be the standard of every entry, I tend to neglect the journal. That neglect is only going to continue: I'm slowly assembling plans for a complete work of philosophy, and eventually all of my literary effort will go into it. In the same way that my entire life is preparation for what happens with each new day, this entire journal is preparation for that piece of writing.