The contemporary philosopher, lonely and isolated as he doubtless is in a world that, even if it had the temperament to read him, lacks the unity of cultural purpose required to effectively receive and properly appraise his insights so that they might be imbued with historical relevance, and also wanton as he surely must be of a worthy opponent as well as grand, tumultuous events to season the times in which he was born so that his own life, work and thought might be endowed with a certain measure of “timeless” import, should nevertheless be inwardly grateful that his is not a philosophical age or a particularly-deep thinking or truth-seeking people, all of which destine such epochs and races for destruction at a level commensurate to the height their linguistic audacity and philosophical accomplishment; destruction that not only renders such a people thereafter worthless and impotent to the world of thought and ideas but all other worlds to include the economic, cultural, social, artistic and political.
For such was the price those two great philosophical races – namely, the pre-Alexandrian Greeks and pre-Hitlerian Germans – had to pay for their sins committed against the innocent sleep of yawning Metaphysics, their voices which roused that great slumbering Giant not only out of its blissful fantasy but to frothing, lusty anger; that Giant whose sole purpose is to guard itself against the conscious nature of itself so that man might be continually invested with the sense of mystery, wonder and awe that life’s continual evolution requires for its fervent actualization; purpose which, primordial and cardinal to the unfoldment of time, nature and truth as it is, rightly justifies the absolute decimation of the body and spirit of those who seek, care and love it best.
Such is the tragic quandary of striving man: he “The Subject” that cannot keep himself from yearning and searching endlessly after that which his own finitude is ultimately incapable of maintaining once “achieved”.
At the highest and most bewildering states that the spirit of man is sensually capable, the lines that so definitively delineate his loftiest values, namely, those that in his soundness of mind keep love from hate, good from evil, heaven from hell and life from death, begin to waver and tremble before eventually dissolving into an indistinguishable conceptual mass that, far from filling man with productive wonder or dread, signifies that he has reached the terminus of what is aesthetically and linguistically possible or else “perceivable”; “Impossibility” which, if tarried within and alongside too long, will inevitably preclude such a one from ever achieving the same sane and stable state of mind he might have once enjoyed: the mind, hope and faith of man that requires for their endurance the allure of possibility and infinite creative potential by and in which they might continually evolve and develop.
Indeed, those who are most passionate about and productive in life are the ones who are least acquainted with metaphysical impossibility and sensual awe.
The bane of their life-giving naivete, however, is that it renders them perpetually gullible to and defenseless against the most immature and obvious machinations of emotional manipulation, those which the thinking man has forever prided himself for being largely immune, that immunization, however, which always comes at the cost of the single-minded ferocity not only required to pursue a course to its difficult end but often commence its infantile beginning as well.
The philosopher, therefore, as one most intimate with metaphysical Impossibility, must, if he so desires to maintain the necessary passion to continue his life’s work, constantly and unremittingly redefine the limits of his own highest values so as to push the threshold of Impossibility further and further from what he has already actualized by the handiwork of his own good senses.
Devil walks into bar. Orders drink. Asks Philosopher sitting next to him: “And what do you do?”