So I’m finally taking History of Philosophy. A 1000 level class. The milk and bread of philosophical investigation. I just finished reading a few of Plato’s works and suddenly find myself confronted by a lamentable degree of intellectual poverty–my very own philosophical poverty. This is my, perhaps vain and selfish, response to the situation.
I came to philosophy through the backdoor, lured by glowing cigars night after night, and her sweet post-modern scents. I came over from that neighbour across the back alley–a love/hate relationship–theology. But now I have plummeted below the poverty line, not only because of mysteriously rising tuition, but also because I have finally turned an attentive ear to the dominion of the dead. It’s humorous, really, how convinced I have been of my aptitude in engaging post-modern philosophy (the falsely elite) –like the poor man who bought himself a stylish new hat instead of milk and bread–as if I were a creature purely of the present, and of indulging my every intellectual whim, when really, I have history in my bones–an arthritic history, or that viciously subtle pain of an empty stomach that torments one through the night: should have bought the bread. (I am suburbia’s first born son). It seems I must hang my post-modern hat on a hook for a while, and go eat some bread (and maybe some homemade borscht)… But I’m coming for you, you city of words, words, words. Watch for me: the satiated one (with nonetheless appetite!) in the flashy black bowler hat.