We’ve to buckle down. Get something written.
We’ve got to have ideas. We’ve got to be brilliant. That’s the problem: we’re not brilliant.
Speak for yourself.
Why: do you suspect that you might be brilliant? Do you? You do, don’t you? Driss thinks he’s a genius, guys.
We’ve got to think what only we can think. We’ve got to write what only we can write.
The main thing I think, that I keep coming back to, is that I’m really, really mediocre.
See, Driss: that’s modesty. Barbarossa doesn’t think he’s a genius like you.
So what is it that we and only we can write?
We have to write from where we are. What we are.
What are we Brits good at?
Music. We’re good at music.
Sure.
Films, sometimes.
Analytic philosophy.
Well, fuck that.
Come on, this European stuff isn’t natural to us – I’ve always said it. It has the thrill of the unknown about it. We’re not critical enough. Not sharp minded enough. We’re just grateful that it exists and that it kind of rescued us from our Britishness. The way that we’re, like, naturally empiricist and unspeculative and literal minded and unmetaphysical.
May I remind you that Alfred North Whitehead was British.
We should make European philosophy speak to analytic philosophy.
So reductive.
Work in Progress 