Friends, colleagues, philosophers—I’ve had a little too much to drink, and while I’m still somewhat drunk, I’m in a hurry to share a kind of insight.
You know, Plato was right when he said that philosophy is the art of dying. Damn, that was well said.
We philosophers are, in essence, half-dead from birth. Philosophy is not really about intelligence or intellectual ability. I must admit, I consider myself somewhat stupid. The whole point is that philosophers are somehow already a little—or perhaps significantly—dead. We are not fully involved in this world. We always feel slightly alien, like guests merely passing through. We hear the same scream that resounds through Munch’s painting. That is what it is all about. Nothing else.
Through books, quotations, and hints—openly or secretly, publicly or privately—we merely exchange knowing glances, winking at one another, simply to make sure that we exist.
The Gnostics had something like this too. I would not call myself a Gnostic, but there is something truthful in hearing Sophia’s otherworldly call.
I do not particularly like alcohol. I simply had to drink tonight, and suddenly I understood why other people enjoy it, whereas for me it has always been merely a social obligation or, very rarely, a way of numbing stress.
Alcohol muffles that piercing sound of horror—the sound that is so close and familiar to us, and so unpleasant to everyone else.
It is obvious, then, that a philosopher is not a human being, but a monster.
