Worth Getting to Know

The sense that there was something we were up to. That there was something about us worth attending to. Worth watching.

That we were up and comers. That we were people whose career was to be followed. That we were interesting in some way. Intriguing. That our thoughts were … new in some sense. That they hadn’t been thought before.

So that older philosophers could see our promise. So that we could sit with them at conferences as they bitched about everyone else. As they put down everyone else, witheringly. Wittily. As they made catty remarks about this or that speaker.

We were in the circle of intimates. We were deemed worthy enough to bitch in front of. To gossip before.

We were included. We weren’t targets of obvious contempt. Judgement was deferred. They looked upon us tolerantly, even a little warmly.

We’d earnt our place. We weren’t just no ones, no marks. We could even make a few catty remarks ourselves. To make them laugh, these older philosophers. These philosophers who’d done the rounds. Done all the big conferences. Who’d even hung out with the big names – the big European names. Who’d hung out with Zizek in the Alps. And Badiou on Malta …

 

We had the beginnings of a Reputation.

Players: that’s what we were. Taken half seriously. Given advice.

Thinkers of particular potential! Of special promise!

Because we weren’t part of the general magma. We weren’t run-of-the-mill types.

We were recognised as going to be around for some time. As worth getting to know, a little.

 

And didn’t we have glamour now, as full-time lecturers? Weren’t we were eligible, in the academic world at least?

We were taken seriously. We were players. Up-and-comers. Our speaking slots at conferences weren’t first thing in the morning. People would even come to our papers out of curiosity. What were these Newcastle people about? How come they were hired? Were picked out from all the other hopefuls? There must be something about them …

 

We were part of the continental philosophy scene. We weren’t ignorable. We weren’t just magma. We weren’t disposable. We weren’t there then gone, like so many other post-PhDs.

We weren’t passers through. We were fixtures, of a sort. We were going to be here for the long haul, or at least until our departments were closed down.

Which meant that we were worth getting to know. We might be needed as external examiners, or something. A PhD examiners. As external degree validators. As guest speakers, who knows? We might have something to say … And we couldn’t be worse than X, or Y …

Mutual advantage things. Player to player favours. Lecturer on lecturer boosterism. Wasn’t this how things were done?

 

We were going to be around for a while. There was some curiosity about us. What was happening up there at Newcastle? What was going on?

We weren’t just part of the crowd of post-PhDs, looking for work. Desperate for work.

We’d Made It in some sense. We had Status. We were In. We weren’t fly by nights.

We were part of the crowd. Worth getting to know. Maybe even worth taking seriously.

 

We had a glamour about us. People were curious. Who were we, anyway? What were we about? What were we working on? What were we Up To?

Worth having an affair with. Worth romancing, maybe. Worth entering into some Intrigue with.

 

Who knows what we’d do in the future. Could be asked to run a learned society. Become Treasurer of the British Society of Continental Philosophy. Join the Executive of Hermeneutica Scotia. Become the Secretary of the European Philosophy Circle.

We’d be part of the UK continental philosophy furniture – no question of that.

 

Our Rise. Our Ascent.

We were suddenly Attractive. Post PhDs approaching us. Wondering if we could offer them part-time work. Would there be an entry level jobs with us? Was Newcastle philosophy really expanding? Might there be an entry level job or two coming up?

We understood. We were once desperate. And pretty recently, too.

 

We’d be like them, the in-crowd. We were at home at conferences. Greeting friends at conferences. Greeted warmly.

 

Once you were in, you were in. Once you’d got your full time job, you were on the ascent, unless there was something really wrong with you. So longer as you published a few things. Gave a few papers. Your institutional standing would take care of itself. Your reputation, among your fellow lecturers … were you a bon vivant? Were they glad to run into you at conferences? Could you give a good paper?

 

Popular! Imagine that! We’d be popular! We’d be people to meet! From one of the power bases of European philosophy in the UK!

Eventually professors. Eventually, heads of department. Eventually, people of influence.

Eventually, heads of learned societies. Eventually. Editors of academic journals. Eventually, eminence grises.

Eventually, delivers of prestigious lecture series. Eventually, book series editors. Commissioners of books for book series. Contributors of essays to collections.

Reference-writers. People of influence. Promotion external assessors. Part of the European philosophers in the Anglophone world-machinery.

 

There must be something about us. We couldn’t be complete idiots. We were just fools. We’d made our way to lectureships – wasn’t that something? In this climate! In these times!

Lectureships in philosophy: gold-dust! How had we done it?

 

And what was happening in Newcastle, anyway? Everyone else, departments were closing, but in Newcastle?

 

So it wasn’t all disaster, after all. So it wasn’t just closure and ruination and devastation and Analytic hegemony. So the cause wasn’t quite lost. So Continental Philosophy wasn’t just fallen.

 

We were worth googling. Worth reading something by, so you could curry favour with us.

We were part of the scene. Postgrads told to cultivate us. Post PhDs … To get themselves known.

 

We’d be on the Inside. Recognised. Greeted. Nodded to. Waved at.

We’d become Known Quantities. Familiars.

We weren’t on the Outside anymore. We weren’t Ignorable. We were In, not Out.

Worth being nice to. Worth a Smile. Worth buttering-up after our papers (‘Very rich. Very interesting.’) Worth Flattering. Worth Cultivating. Worth Attending to in general. Worth sitting next to at conference meals.

Worth having a chat with. Worth spending half an hour with.

 

They’ll be attributing Cunning to us. Canniness. Player-ism. Careerism. They think we must be Clever. Just because we had a job. Just because we were gainfully employed. They’ll be deducing that we were Smart, after all. That we weren’t idiots, as we might have appeared. That we were in the Game, as they were. Where the stakes were Careers – proper careers.

That we were Going Somewhere. We weren’t on a hiding to nothing.

That they should Notice us. That we were worth Politeness. Even a kind of Respect for us.

 

Newcastle! A Russell Group university! Surprising. They didn’t expect that. The opening of a new philosophy department. A European one! How could that happen?

 

We were going to be People of Influence. We were to be Cultivated. Greeted.

 

And now we were part of it, the Anglophone Continental Philosophy machine. The European philosophy in the UK operation.

Now we might be Invited to give a talk at this department or that. Or to continue an essay to this special edition of a journal or that. We might be invited to another conference to speak.

 

There was even a kind of mystique about us. The Newcastle people. The European philosophers of Newcastle.

 

Newcastle!? Our university was ranked much higher than theirs. Our university had much more of a reputation!

 

They were shaking our hands – people we used to look up. People who’d spoken as keynote speakers when we were postgraduates at our first conference.

 

We were of the Establishment.