Philosophy’s fallen into the pit. Our pit. We’ve dragged Heidegger into our pit. And everyone else!
We play with these ideas, like children. We don’t know what they’re about. We don’t understand their stakes.
That’s our charm.
It’s like all we do is try on costumes. Drive about in clown cars. Stamping about in shoes that are too big for us.
And? So?
We’re not worthy of philosophy. We’re not serious.
That’s what Cicero loved about us.
European philosophy without the continental stuffiness: that’s what she said. And without the UK reverence for stuffiness.
European philosophy without the philosophy. Or the Europeanness.
We can’t take it seriously.
We can’t take seriously our taking things seriously. We can’t let us ourselves get pompous … pretentious.
Always joking. Always taking the piss.
That’s what saves us.
Saves us! We destroy everything we touch. Even philosophy! Even Heidegger! Nothing survives – not even Heidegger.
He was a Nazi.
Why do we have to be like this? Why are we so unashamed? Is this all we can be? Is this all I can be?
Work in Progress 