Our Stupidity

The point is to affirm idiocy, Livia mused. Not to see it as a deficiency. Not to see ourselves as lacking anything. But we were incapable of that.

We were perfect idiots, in her eyes. Beautiful idiots. Beautiful in our idiocy and because of it.

Dwelling in idiocy. In a whole ethos of idiocy – a way of perceiving and engaging with the world, with ourselves, with others …

Perhaps it takes a non-idiot to understand it, Livia said. A non- idiot standing outside it. Who’s not part of it. Who doesn’t dwell within it.


At least we’re amused by our stupidity, Livia said. At least it diverts us.

From what?

From our stupidity of course.


Livia’s love of her idiots. Of idiots.

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?


Livia, too, was an agent of Stupidity, the greater Stupidity. She, too, was a servant of forces beyond her control. She, like us, served Idiocy and the self-seeking of Idiocy.

Idiocy’s desire to come to itself. To breathe real breaths. To live, for a while in the world. To attain itself in the world. To be there, for a moment, amongst us.


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.

Our idiocy, and the sources of our idiocy. It was channelling the greater Idiocy of which our idiocy was a part.


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?


An idiocy that had yet to arrive, in some sense. An idiocy that hadn’t met with itself. That didn’t coincide with itself.

An idiocy that had yet to look at itself in the mirror. That had yet to bear its own gaze. That had yet to look back at itself, reflected. That had yet to say, I am idiocy, destroyer of worlds.


Drunkenly contemplating it, our stupidity. Drunkenly pleased with it and pleased with ourselves for noticing it.

This is how we entertain ourselves. This is how stupidity entertains itself, passes the hours.

Amazing that we can just entertain ourselves like this, for hour after hour. But isn’t that the truest sign of our stupidity: that we can entertain ourselves like this, for hour after hour?


Stupidity explosions, deep underground.

Stupidity bombs, dropping from the sky. Storms of stupidity, the sky darkening.

A roaring stupidity. An angry stupidity.

A greater stupidity. God’s stupidity, if there can be such a thing.


Stupidity, trying to sound its depths. Failing to sound its depths. Stupidity, pondering its own abyss. Failing to ponder its own abyss.


What makes us think that we’re especially stupid? Isn’t that a kind of hubris? I mean, why should we suppose that here’s something special about our stupidity? Something that sets it apart?


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.


Stupidity’s the only thing we have. The only thing that might save us.

From what?

From knowing our stupidity, of course.


What’s the opposite of a savant? The opposite of a prodigy? Is there such a thing as a genius of stupidity?