This is our coming of age. See, you can’t be not yet philosophers when you’re thirty-five. Thirty-five, you’ve got to look at yourself in the mirror. And what do you see?
You can’t rely on pure philosophical ardency anymore. Pure philosophical intensity can only sustain you for so long. You have to actually deliver. Write something good. Think something hard.
Our coming of age when we finally realise, we actually realise, that we’re shit. But will we accept it. We’ll struggle against it. That’ll be our lives, that struggle. That thrashing on the line. That dirty protest. Soiling every page we write. And every page we read, probably. And soiling the world by our very presence.
Work in Progress 