You don’t have to be so desperately marginal, philosopher.
You’ll couple up, philosopher. Get a proper girlfriend. It’ll happen. You’ll surprise yourself. You’ll do what other people do. Because it happens to us all, the whole settling down thing. Even to such as you.
Someone who’ll treat you properly, not like me. Someone who’ll look up to you. A fellow philosopher, maybe. You’ll meet her at a conference, or something. You’ll couple up and settle down. Just like anyone else.
You’ll have given up all idea of writing magnum opuses by then. You’ll be tired of the philosophical life.
What will she be like, philosopher? Someone you can be proud of. Someone of intellect. Of insight. Someone who Sees things, like you do. Where you don’t have to spell it out, like you do to me.
You’ll live in a philosophical bubble, won’t you? You can merge libraries. Imagine your dinner parties! See you’d get into dinner parties, too. Into entertaining …
You’ll want to lay down philosophy for a bit, philosophy. Lay down your arms. And – reproduce. You can name your children after famous philosophers. Raise them philosophically. Hothouse them. Whatever that would mean.
You’d have serious, thoughtful children, who’d say serious, impressive things. That would impress your guests at dinner parties.
That’s how it should be: philosophers should marry philosophers and raise philosophical nepo babies. Perpetuate the subject area. Pass on your philosophical lessons. You can ensure they had the education you did not.
She’d actually be interesting, that’s the thing. She’d actually intrigue you. She wouldn’t be like me, all whatever I am, all alienated and dissociated, who doesn’t belong anywhere. You wouldn’t suspect her of being a synth. And she wouldn’t suspect herself of being one either.
You can head off to conferences together – wouldn’t that be dandy? You’ll have academic philosophy friends with whom you can share philosophical gossip. Conference circuit gossip! You can plot and plan philosophically. Conspire philosophically. Discuss current affairs from a philosophical angle.
Someone who’d cook you square meals. Someone to cook for. And with.
You could read each other drafts of your work in progress. You could recommend each other books. What a marvel! A philosophical life – a proper one. Not with an ersatz type like me.
An intellectual paradise for two. Talking about things of which I’d have no idea. Intelligence meets intelligence. Intelligence multiplied by intelligence.
It’s only what you deserve, philosopher. You wouldn’t have to explain everything, like you do to me. It wouldn’t be like talking to an idiot – a proper idiot, not a philosophical one. You wouldn’t have to spell things out about mood, and so on.
You could even write things together. Present your work together at conferences. You could make believe that it even mattered.
Collaboration, philosopher. In philosophy and in life. A shared project. Living and working together. You’d have so much to talk about.
Your chance of a normal life, philosopher …
Two intellectuals. Two philosophers. Brought together! By luck! By chance! Wouldn’t you feel lucky with so much in common? Wouldn’t you be smug? Wouldn’t things just have worked out fine?
I suppose you feel more alone than ever, hanging out with me. I suppose I make you feel even more alone.
How life must suck. You must feel ever so exasperated. Having to explain so many things.
A great philosophical loneliness: that’s what your books attest to. A great cultural aloneness. A cultural cry.
Your book culture. Your film culture. Your music culture. And your arts in general culture.
That there might be others who appreciate this stuff. Who could save you from your lonely philosophical agony. Someone to whom these names mean something
What would her name be, I wonder? Another Indian type? Are there many Indian types, in your world? They’re all doing medicine, the Indians I grew up with. Some are lawyers. The lack sheep of the family became pharmacists. The very black sheep fell somehow into Organisational Management.
What is it that you want? Someone to appreciate these things with.
Your cultural treasury. Your dragon’s hoard. Your treasure on which you can curl up like Smaug.
What a relief to meet her. The test of your love life will become a distant memory. Our affairlette will be revealed in its true dimensions, as Nothing. As Squib. As Insignificance. As a bagatelle.
You could perform a real love death together, when philosophy is finally closed down.
Your Destiny, philosopher. That’s what it’ll feel like.
Just be patient. Keep your eyes open. Kee on looking. True love will find you in the end, and so on.
And in the meantime, here we are … you and I. And what does it amount to? What does it all Mean, capital M?
You and I, philosopher. For a time. But for how long? For how much longer?
We aren’t suited, not really. Anyone can see that. You wouldn’t put us together, would you? We wouldn’t meet on Hinge or on Tinder. Mutual friends wouldn’t introduce us. But then we wouldn’t have any mutual friends …
Work in Progress 