Were we Forrest Gumps of philosophy, or Prince Myshkins? Did we have to choose?
There was something Cicero wasn’t cynical about. That made her clap her hands in unfeigned glee! In a simple happy gladness!
Her love of idiots. Of idiocy.
Of those who were untouched. Who are innocent, despite it all. Innocent in their idiocy!
Stupidity is immense, she said. Stupidity is oblivious. And that’s why it can save us.
She was grateful for idiocy, Cicero said. For what idiocy had brought her. For us! For her idiot squad.
What hadn’t we taught her? Or untaught her? What hadn’t we got wrong and therefore got right?
What blows on the head hadn’t we dealt her? Great blows! Laughing blows! Gladdening blows!
The world was a midden. The world was a sewer. But we – we! Bobbed along the sewer in our innocence.
Our kind! Our type! Who survived the tides. Weathered all the storms. Who she romanticised – Cicero didn’t doubt that. Who she idealised! Who represented the worst and hence the best, in intellectual life.
She was a stupidity collector, Cicero said. She wanted to gather together all the errors of the age. Error is necessary – hadn’t Heidegger said that? To think greatly is to err greatly. To um and err. To scratch your head, like Stan Laurel.
The age needed its idiot sidekicks. Philosophy needed its stupid assistants. Like Arthur and Jeremiah in The Castle.
Work in Progress 