At least we’re amused by our stupidity, Livia said. At least it diverts us.
From what?
From stupidity of course.
Livia used to speak of the stupidity of the humanities. Identical with the studiousness of the humanities. With the stupefaction of the humanities. With the idiocy of the humanities.)
What there is to be thought: stupidity. What stands in the way of stupidity being thought: stupidity.
She was grateful for idiocy, Livia 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 brain hadn’t we dealt her? Great blows! Laughing blows! Gladdening blows!
The intricacies of our idiocy. Its filigree. It’s delicacy, even. Idiocy could be quite a refined thing. Like some complex confectionary. The taste of such delicate idiocy. The savouring of such idiocy. Only a connoisseur of idiocy, like Livia, could really appreciate it. It’s too bad we never learnt to appreciate it ourselves. Too bad that we were incapable of enjoying our idiocy. But that would require a non-idiocy that none of us possessed.
Our wager: that we might have something to say as idiots – as philosophical idiots. But we don’t know how – or why. We’re too idiotic for that. Are we fundamental idiots, or just idiots? How deep is our idiocy – that’s the question. How far down does it go?
Is there such a thing as an idiot’s philosophy? Or does idiocy always fall short of philosophy? Can you philosophise from your idiocy – or do you have to philosophise against it?
Our questions. The questions of idiots. But are the question of idiots idiotic questions? Philosophical idiocy – is it the same as idiotic philosophy? The same thing? The idiocy of philosophy and the philosophy of idiocy: what’s the difference?
Have we ever really reached it, our stupidity? Livia wondered. Where we could really come into our stupidity? Own up to it? Inherit it?
Will we ever be able to inhabit it, our stupidity? Dwell in it.
Have we really been released into our stupidity?
We should let our idiocy be idiocy: that’s what Livia told us. It was more than accepting our idiocy. More than reconciling ourselves to our idiocy. It was affirming it, our idiocy.
Let us be these idiots: that’s what we should say to ourselves. Let us step into our idiocy. Let us be, really be these idiots. Let us own our idiocy – not fight against it. Let idiocy be the seed from which it would grow, our non-intellectual life.
It’s still to come, in a way, the opening of our idiocy. It’s still ahead of us. We’re still waiting for it. We’ve yet to come into our own, as idiots.
Livia’s waiting, too. Livia’s excited. Livia knows that it isn’t here yet, but that it will be. She’s waiting to see what we will do. She’s waiting to see what her charges will do, when idiocy arrives.
Idiocy Itself. Capital I, for Itself. Idiocy, arriving. Idiocy, coming. Idiocy, terrifying – great. Like an angel. Are there angels of idiocy?
Might there be another name for idiocy? Might it be, innocence? Might there be such a thing as a divine idiocy? As a messianic idiocy?
Is there an idiot messiah, a messiah of idiocy? Is idiocy arriving as the messiah, and as nothing other than the messiah?)
Work in Progress 