in the mind, there, one finds the only instance where a wheel can be completely flat. not to say that this is imaginary, as I speak only of the wheels of the psyche as a mechanism for trains of thought, moving, as they would, in as straight a direction as they can. and only in the mind could one meld the metaphor of trains and their wheels into a single shape: for example, this one. the wheels the train itself. the train, thus, a hefty concubine, to in this unreal context becometh as a burden. if carried past the point of use, it would be, if even the point of use were encompassed, after a few words. and, moreover, a concubine, because it is this, a secretive object to be used and cast off. no need is for it besides in the name to be morphed, as a way to compose a thing-in-itself. who then is made cuckold? and here is the dame of logic, punished for ignoring the cohabitation of her image with that of trains, and tending to her wheels, rather than what is carried by them. to thoughts, perhaps; to awareness perhaps. but as for what it is literally, that is a pure distinction, wheels as wheels, not as trains, and the mechanism—what it is to ‘carry forth’—separate from the two objects: being one, perhaps, a single car, another a series of metal wheels shrill on the tracks. and myself? I am the creator of this triangle, and my psyche the tracks that initiate the mechanism heretofore a meld, once taken to the level of thoughts, and the figuration, metaphor, no part of trains or wheels. I perceive a blankness eventually, that is, as to how heavily one might diverge from the literal image, for the sake of an imagery, then figuration. Then abstraction. I would be replaced by trash, I would becometh the concubine, a mammoth set of cars, settling their weight this and that way on the tracks, than see the dame of logic reviled such ways. yet unlike the train—wheels and all—the locomotion and destination of this thought-object, in at the least an expressively literal way, depend on me. I am the tracks on which the train settles, wavering, after all. But objects for the use of—ontological—speculations, that is, ones existing not but in my head, have more freedom as regards any offense to the philosophic dame. especially, conceptual states—self-generated being—specifically, have more malleability than I do. that is, if at the edge of disappearing. the strangely obvious distinction of course is that I would cease to be, whereas the concept might not. … . … …. …. .. . … . . . . .. I see the need for a wastebasket in which to throw reason’s cast jetsam. and in this, the only thing that—morphs—is so done by the appropriation of a question as to who, rather than what, is dishonored. and that is the most important distinction. that is, I believe, the philosopher would do well to see the life of a thought the same as any sentient life. the train, an image; the dame, the question as to what becometh a combination of wheels and trains, what carries on them after. and yet such a combination—not to prove, but throw light on, a state of a thing-in-itself—would be in need of an image to use up for this result. something to throw away. yet what is to be sacrificed here without a question of dishonor? perhaps, then, I would be cuckold, the trash, the jetsam. such is the fault of philosophy. we dishonor the figuration, keep the result. we rape the marriage of ourselves with logic by inserting what to me is a concubine in either the futile attempt at the figuration of a thing-in-itself or—perhaps—simply, it is something unneeded, but for its quick purpose. and to focus on all of it as if it all were needed is the dignity and science behind philosophy, to me, at least. one needs a careful mind to make it all relevant without succumbing to mania. … . .. . . .… … … … . . . that concept indeed is only for the noblest—mind—to follow through to the station, at this point a merest caricature, barely there, cloaked in fog. and of course there is an philosophic assurance of things, despite looking for proof. a priori, what feels, seems, right, to one. the only experience is not the looking for proof for a previous designation but rather comes in new designations of new things as time moves forward, catching us up with them. and still the prior to prove itself fast and loose; as rightly limited. I prefer to think of it as a harness. I mean, might as well hang on to a priori allegations of the trivial, as with Lucretius, and his telling of the birth of worms from the dirt. or as with Aristotle, and his holding to the idea of men having more teeth than women. as if the truth were ad-libbed, one makes the fabricated truth a truth of a kind, in shewing where intuitive logic holds sway and where experience is the weaker frame, that is, if it needs evidence. for not everything contains evidence as to whether it is, and yet it remaineth there. as to the comparison of experience with what rings true, wisdom as to experience will ring true in those with empathy. but the a priori needs no empathy, however one must build on it each day, each moment, to feel the vaster and vaguer empathy all share in what is inexpressible. if it comes with the passing of time, of course it is expressible. the passage of time is, simply, how one travels forth into new reasonings, new empathies, if perhaps more concrete ones. what rings true will always be, though false, and even after proven false, the insensible feeling remaineth. obstinately. and of course there will be a loggia of smaller assumptions that connect to whatever pure and clear limit the mind has made of a greater learned thing, which in most cases would not be limiting but rather a conclusion, tied together. but it is always with time that this happens, and thus the gain of knowledge is inevitable, whether or not it is pursued; and, so, the loggia is inevitable, especially if it is not pursued. pure reason is a construct; that is to say, it must be constructed, and once this is done, and all loose ends cut, the argument is made and that is that. but it is not a reflection of experience, which involves the inevitable, false idiom, What Rings True. intuitive logic is necessary for the aesthetic of an philosophical text to exist; moreover it is necessary in order for a text as such to be a—true—reflection of experience, of the to me very much intended messiness of life. pure reason perhaps might explain the mindful intention of the mess, and comprehensively—prove—something, but it is not a description of the mess. (It’s beautiful. What is. What’s going on inside your mind. You refuse it all, for the sake of some manner of dignity, always to come. That things not necessarily might run short but that there is a greater sensation, a greater pleasance. What do you mean. You are blessed. You are blessed with discomfiture. It will take your life; you know this. Moreover it is not dissatisfaction, which is something similar to ennui. It is hoping for more, not greedily devouring with the hope of more to be devoured, and once there is not, turning the other way, arms crossed, pouting. You never pout. You hope for more, and when the sensation does not provide it is a great suffering to you. It is not greed that drives you; it is hunger. It is starvation; feeling eternally on the brink of intellectual and emotional famine. For this you give your life, for this you will. It will become too hard, as it was for me, DAN. You have a wonderful book, Søren. I wish I could understand all of it. The confusion’s the blessing, I understand. Your point is an epic faith, a resonance in something of a parable of the mind, unable to resonate in the breast. But it does, unlike parables, morals, things for a point. It is through the privations of Abraham that we all realize the disorder of significance. That it can be murderous, if applied to selfish means, which come about as most negativities do, through mangling whatever point is made, to suit one’s own picture of what appears right. As regards something so baffling as blind faith, no metaphysical picture can be made, I’ve found, DAN. But that you yourself applied a subjective universe to something so stoical as faith, so unmoving, is a brilliant cohesion, and humane. And so you see, your blessing of discomfiture does not make a picture of that, at least one that it relies on. You turn down the dial on assurance; for all thoughts, the ones that are philosophical, metaphysical etc. are for selfish means. You know this. That is, to experience transcendence. Greatness. Immortality. It seems to me to be your unique humility that gets you to refuse what great sensations that others would feel blessed themselves to experience. This sounds like ungratefulness, and, again, this is not greed; it is refusing those means of thinking for the sake of a more naked manner, for the sake of the ideal you give up all transgressions of the ideal that are committed in the heart of one who speaks them. You speak what you can in the moment that you can, as an offering. Neither of us is grateful for what we have been given, anyway, only grateful for life itself. And if that includes our own lives, much the better. But as to sensations as applied to thoughts: you know the ephemerality of this that leads to false assurance. And that is a wisdom much foregone nowadays. But listen now. Writing is the ultimate balance, and words are, throw aside your philology, give me more of your time. That is, give my idea more time. Do not study me, is what I mean. I know what philology means. Yes! And give to the feeling of the idea, for now. Not the other way around. I have to go. Why? I must dissolve along with all the angels of suffering, and leave you alone forever, until I come again, as some other progenitor. But take care. And I would only have you, Søren, be the momentary vision. For I value too much the possibility of objectively viewing your massively subjective reasoning. So go, restless horse; you go. Leave me to my quandaries, and do not be bound like all the rest to this inane galley of ghosts. Be free from me. Go. But he had already left. Farewell, I suppose. And I am left the man to be left, left behind. That wonder I see in what is forever, yes, it is an eternal discard. That we each are left behind, by some more gifted thing, something more—how to put it— Do me well, others, ghost-others, leave me, you only create havoc, leave me, I say as they loom over, telling me back to my place, and thereupon I will dissolve. I kick a stone, and it is like the blood swimming in my brain, and it is like the sky, and the wind, and the trees. And it is like faith. “Goodbye, Mr. Kierkegaard, and thanks.” I say this as I obediently leave him to his WORLD of thoughts. He appears deep in contemplation, then, kicking at something in his head; and I return to my place in the WORLD of people, not knowing he had told himself to go, nor that I had left, when he had wanted me to stay.) . . . . . . . . .
Posted on: Sun, 29 Sep 2013 00:21:33 +0000
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