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Lately I've written a decent number of philosophical remarks on the subject of likeness. I want to write about what it feels like to work on a philosophical subject of any kind, and hopefully to write more about likeness specifically in a future post. I have little experience with philosophy overall, but I still enjoy this activity, mostly because it challenges me to state things as concisely and clearly as I can possibly manage. I find this task remarkably difficult. I get distracted easily, and my thoughts on abstract subjects of any kind usually appear quite murky, and are clarified only with strenuous effort. (This works fine when I write poetry, since most readers tolerate a substantially greater degree of murkiness in that genre than they would anywhere else. I happen to think that people exhibit excessive tolerance for this kind of murkiness.) I would assess my philosophical abilities overall as quite feeble; as a matter of fact, if I had to assert anything, I would describe myself as having only one preternatural skill, specifically skill for rhetoric. I mean that historically I've always done well in any class which required a lot of writing, especially anything based on opinion, experience, or imagination. Almost all my time spent on hobbies consists in reading or writing some kind of imaginative literature. I feel comfortable with any task consisting principally in arranging and rearranging words until they better conform with some arbitrary standard.
In philosophizing, this poses the particular challenge of having to ensure, somehow or other, that what I've written actually says something substantive, rather than simply depending on rhetorical force to give the impression of substance. (Again, such force seems to work far better in poetry.)
Then again, Ludwig Wittgenstein famously remarked: "Philosophy ought really to be written only as a form of poetry." Wittgenstein is my favorite philosopher, and just a few days ago I finished re-reading Ray Monk's biography of him. (I feel terrified at the prospect that my philosophy may never amount to anything but a superficial imitation of Wittgenstein's style, expressing nothing whatsoever of the philosophical spirit with which he carried out his work. But I should comfort myself with the possibility that my work can eventually imitate lots of other people, too, and equally superficially.) At various times I've felt that I understand the above remark better or worse, but should really have made notes at either time, since I now struggle to recall my reasoning! Wittgenstein made a great deal of the distinction between saying and showing, and it seems possible that, although I feel highly suspicious of the assertion that poetry conveys truth of any kind, nevertheless it may arrange its elements in such a way as to encourage a new perspective in its reader. He commented at some length on the image of the duck-rabbit, to the effect that seeing a single thing as two things proves very, very strange to think about. After all, the image of the duck-rabbit never itself changes, and yet one may look at it and think, "duck, rabbit, duck, rabbit," and all the while observe it, so to speak, "flipping back and forth" between the aspect of a duck and a rabbit. Perhaps poetry as much as a philosophy has the capacity to affect something similar with respect to any of its objects.
But this raises the question as to how poetic and philosopical works or language can meaningfully be distinguished. It would seem easiest firstly to suggest that the kinds of activity which give rise to either category differ greatly from one another. But how do they differ? (And why "greatly"? What do I take for a frame of reference here? This suggests that I feel prepared more readily to list unlikenesses than likenesses.)
Do they differ all that greatly? I picture a philosopher and a poet alike working alone, typically in a very quiet environment. Their work, which consists principally in reading and writing, requires no empirical research, although they may indulge in it as they fancy. Collaboration seems unlikely, but not impossible. At the time of publication, the philosopher presents at conferences, whereas the poet presents at open-mics and literary readings of that kind. The laiety generally express disinterest in both disciplines, and sometimes suggest that they belong to an earlier era, that their hey-day has passed. (I personally picture the 19th century as a good time for both.) Wittgenstein intended in many cases to do away with the need for philosophizing altogether, suggesting that, if only the right assortment of banal truths could be assembled, most philosophical questions would dissolve in the face of it. I greatly admire this approach, since it seems worth noting that, even if such an assortment presented, many people would ignore it in favor of continuing to think; so that it seems reasonable to accept that people (such as myself) will go on philosophizing, not out of necessity, but to satisfy a less rational need, or even simply to pass the time. Philosophy does become necessary on occasion, but primarily in order to return to the stream of everyday life having shed some needless intellectual impediments.
Some people, no doubt, will always insist upon its global importance, but I see no reason to believe that something beloved in a niche necessarily has less worth than something beloved in the mainstream. Philosophy can matter to a small number of people, and still matter; and likewise for poetry.
Philosophy seeks a particular kind of reaction. Someone mulls over a problem and its proposed solutions, before exclaiming: "Ah, I get it now!" Or something of that kind. Knowledge which one already possesses becomes so arranged as to provide a new perspective. Consider the sensation of trying an unfamiliar key and lock: if you hold the right key, you must continue adjusting its position until the lock turns and you enter the house, where different concerns await you. Of course, since you may be holding the wrong key all along, you should know at some point to give up, and not to continue trying the door indefinitely. (Don't feel dissatisfied, or think yourself defeated, if you can only enter the house through a window! Or perhaps you should reconsider why you so badly need to enter this particular house.)