Through attempting a comprehensive portrait of existence through time, Heidegger displays a bigger cosmic backdrop against which the shreds of individual despair can be read.
My brain had begun to endure its familiar siege: panic and dislocation, and a sense that my thought processes were being engulfed by a toxic and unnameable tide that obliterated any enjoyable response to the living world.
An interesting article in The Philosopher’s Zone.
I chanced upon this old review of Essays for David Wiggins: Identity, Truth and Value and was pleased to find that others are aware what a treasure this man is, not only in terms of his philosophical writings, but as a person. Speaking of the former, one of my favorite reads of all time is his Sameness and Substance Renewed (2001), a reformulation of his Sameness and Substance (1980) and even before that Identity and Spatio-Temporal Continuity (1967), his metaphysics being far more familiar and compelling to me than his ethics.
But his philosophical style is at once exciting and infuriating, tantalising and off-putting.
So true but well worth the effort and has been somewhat ameliorated in Sameness and Substance Renewed.
Regarding the man, David-Hillel Ruben captures the man I remember so fondly, a kindly gentleness that also infused his work:
Wiggins’s replies are suggestive, diffident and lacking in any sort of the I-was-right-all-along arrogance …
So at odds with the prevailing vulgarity and ideological heavy-handedness of the public intellectual that so many philosophers are clamoring to be.
Who started this damn story in the first place???
The redoubtable Ricky Riccardi looks deeper. His conclusion: apocryphal!
“Oh, my God!” Ignatius stared at what he saw. Once in high school someone had shown him a pornographic photograph, and he had collapsed against a water cooler, injuring his ear. This photograph was far superior. A nude woman was sitting on the edge of a desk next to a globe of the world. The suggested onanism with the piece of chalk intrigued Ignatius. Her face was hidden behind a large book. While George evaded indifferent slaps from the unoccupied paw, Ignatius scrutinized the title on the cover of the book: Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius, The Consolation of Philosophy. “Do I believe what I am seeing? What brilliance. What taste. Good grief.”
“Give that back,” George pleaded.
“This one is mine,” Ignatius gloated, pocketing the top card. He handed the torn package back to George and looked at the piece of torn wrapping between his fingers. There was an address on it. He pocketed that, too. “Where in the world did you get these? Who is this brilliant woman?”
“None of your business.”
“I see. A secret operation.” Ignatius thought of the address on the piece of paper. He would do his own investigating. Some destitute woman intellectual was doing anything for a dollar. Her worldview must be quite incisive, if her reading material were any guide. It could be that she was in the same situation as the Working Boy, a seer and philosopher cast into a hostile century by forces beyond her control. Ignatius must meet her. She might have some new and valuable insights. “Well, in spite of my misgivings, I shall make my cart available to you. However, you must watch the cart this afternoon. I have a rather urgent appointment.”
Terry Nardin reviews the “Companion.” Pleased to see Terry take on John Kekes’ shrill hatched-job.
Nor is one surprised to learn that the chapter provoked an angry response from a reviewer of the Companion, who reproaches Grant for writing and the editors for publishing it. The implication is that there is no place for a biographical chapter in a volume of this kind, or that such a chapter should stay away from love, or at least from sex, which are irrelevant to a thinker’s “work.” Such judgments would be hard to defend. There is a connection between life and work, even though the reviewer missed it.
A personal obit in Forbes. (I met Leonard in Portsmouth, NH)
Nassim Nicholas Taleb has freely made available a collection of his lectures.
Russ Roberts’ latest getting some high-profile press, and endorsed by some top-notch names including the redoubtable Nassim Taleb. Here is an extended interview with Reason. On this general approach to Smith see this forthcoming collection.
Adam Smith, didn’t think the pursuit of wealth was a very good idea, thought it was corrosive, thought it was bad for you, thought ambition was bad for you, thought the pursuit of fame would destroy your character and your happiness, your serenity, your tranquility.
A new co-authored paper by the very versatile Tom Froese.
The model is in agreement with the traditional assumption that collective action is faced by serious problems without centralized hierarchical control, but it also clearly shows that spontaneous cooperation is feasible without it. At least in principle, there is no necessity to assume the existence of a lineage of powerful rulers to explain the origins of Teotihuacan.
“I no longer pretend to understand the world.” She is shaking her head yet still smiling her sweet menacing smile. “The world I knew has come crashing down around my ears. The things we hold dear are reviled and spat upon.” She nods toward Prytania Street. “It’s an interesting age you will live in—though I can’t say I’m sorry to miss it. But it should be quite a sight, the going under of the evening land. That’s us all right. And I can tell you, my young friend, it is evening. It is very late.”
For her too the fabric is dissolving, but for her even the dissolving makes sense. She understands the chaos to come. It seems so plain when I see it through her eyes. My duty in life is simple. I go to medical school. I live a long useful life serving my fellowman. What’s wrong with this? All I have to do is remember it.
“—you have too good a mind to throw away. I don’t quite know what we’re doing on this insignificant cinder spinning away in a dark corner of the universe. That is a secret which the high gods have not confided in me. Yet one thing I believe and I believe it with every fiber of my being. A man must live by his lights and do what little he can and do it as best he can. In this world goodness is destined to be defeated. But a man must go down fighting. That is the victory. To do anything less is to be less than a man.”
She is right. I will say yes. I will say yes even though I do not really know what she is talking about.
But I hear myself saying: “As a matter of fact I was planning to leave Gentilly soon, but for a different reason. There is something—” I stop. My idea of a search seems absurd.”
“To my surprise this lame reply is welcomed by my aunt.
“Of course!” she cries. “You’re doing something every man used to do. When your father finished college, he had his Wanderjahr, a fine year’s ramble up the Rhine and down the Loire, with a pretty girl on one arm and a good comrade on the other. What happened to you when you finished college? War. And I’m so proud of you for that. But that’s enough to take it out of any man.”
Wanderjahr. My heart sinks. We do not understand each other after all. If I thought I’d spent the last four years as a Wanderjahr, before “settling down,” I’d shoot myself on the spot.
“How do you mean, take it out of me?”
“Your scientific calling, your love of books and music. Don’t you remember how we used to talk—on the long winter evenings when Jules would go to bed and Kate would go dancing, how we used to talk! We tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky. Don’t you remember discovering Euripides and Jean-Christophe?”
“You discovered them for me. It was always through you that—”All at once I am sleepy. It requires an effort to put one foot in front of the other. Fortunately my aunt decides to sit down. I wipe off an iron bench with my handkerchief and we sit, still arm in arm. She gives me a pat.”
manwithoutqualities 