Author: Lars Iyer

Didn’t they know who they were dealing with? We’ve read the philosophical books! We’ve tried to think philosophical thoughts. We’re inheritors of philosophy, in our own way. God knows, we’re even guardians of it, philosophy.

Oh maybe crappy ones. Unscholarly ones. Even idiotic ones. But nevertheless. There’s a direct apostolic line from Socrates to us! From the guys in the Upanishads to us! From Confucius to us!

We stand in the tradition! We’re legatees of philosophy! Guardians of it.

Who did they think they were dealing with? Who did they think we were? They had no idea, obviously. And perhaps they didn’t know. Perhaps only the higher-ups know, and perhaps not even them. The higher ups’ higher ups: that’s the level. Up there in the Control Room. That’s where they sit: high above everything.

 

Perhaps that’s our secret weapon: that they underestimate us. That they don’t know who we are. What we are! That they don’t know philosophy and its history. Its martyrs.

The Plan! That only the most discerning can grasp. The spiritually discerning. The spiritually awake. As we are! For all our shortcomings, there’s that! We’re awake! We See. We Hear.

It’s the brazenness that’s offensive. The effrontery. The obviousness of their moves. Their very overtness. It’s the fact that it’s all in plain view. That it’s happening before us. In front of us. That they think they could pull the wool over our eyes. That they think we couldn’t see.

They know what they’re doing – oh, not the organisational managers so much as the higher-ups. The Bigs. Organisational Management are being steered, just as we are.

Yeah, but we know it! We’re alert to it! We’re awake, as they are not!

You know how they work. It’s all compartmentalised. They don’t want the Organisational Managers to know. Just as the higher-ups probably don’t know the real agenda – the higher agenda. It’s compartmentalisation all the way up. Until you reach the Control Room, right. The people with the Plan.

The destruction of philosophy plan? Of all rational thought in the university plan?

That’s only part of it. It’s bigger than that.

They’ll want us to teach Organisational Management ethics, you realise that, don’t you? That’s the only way they can conceive philosophy: as ethics. They have no idea about the other branches of philosophy. Of aesthetics! Of metaphysics! Of ontology! Of logic!

They have no idea about the history of philosophy! Of course not! Or our specialisms. Our so-called research interests. Which do not include anything to do with Organisational Management. Which are notable for their lack of relevance to Organisational Management. What’s clear: that we are not and cannot be, by any stretch of the imagination, Organisational Managers. What’s clear: Philosophy is, like, a war-machine against Organisational Management.  

And they’re much bigger than we are, that’s the thing. They have the numbers. And we have … very little.

Yeah, but we’ve got attitude! Rebelliousness! Avant-gardism!

They scoff at our attitude! Come on! This whole thing is a pacification technique. It’s a neutralisation move. They’re clamping down on thought, right? They’re closing down the possibility of thought.

It’s not enough that they moved us to Organisational Management – they have to rub our faces in it. The forced marriage of Organisational Management and philosophy isn’t sufficient a humiliation; we have celebrate the marriage; we have to pretend the marriage is a good thing.

As if it wasn’t enough of an outrage to plan to move philosophy to Organisational Management! The fact that such decisions could be taken – and without consultation. That such things could be forced. In spite of all common sense! In spite of all precedent! No: they want more. They want to see us squirm.

But why? This can’t be simple vindictiveness, can it? There must be a deeper motivation. Someone, somewhere, believes they’re doing good by this move. They believe they’re doing the right thing. That’s what’s frightening. The delusion! The moralism! That’s what you have to be afraid of.

It’s a logic – the same logic as everywhere. Productivity. Efficiency. Easier management. Rationalisation.

But moving Philosophy to Organisational Management!? That’s not about rationalisation.

It’s some misplaced idea of developing synergies. Of bringing together disparate subject areas. Of, like, interdisciplinarity or multidisciplinarity or whatever … They wanted to effect the becoming Organisational Management of philosophy! The becoming philosophy of Organisational Management!

And now we’re supposed to celebrate the absurdity. Now we’re supposed to sup with the enemy …

I’m not eating anything in front of them. I’m not filling my plate in front of these losers. I’m not going to chat. I’m not going to make small talk. I’m not going to shoot the breeze with those fuckers …

God, if only we had a bomb! Or flamethrowers! If only we were armed! A suicidal last stand! Armed resistance!

Why do you always have to go from 0 to 60 with your lunacy?

Cicero’s gone. And we … we’re not up to the job. Or any job. Or anything. This is just the playing out … of our mediocrity. It begins and ends with our mediocrity. With the fact that we aren’t Cicero …

But Cicero chose us, didn’t she? She practically combed the country for us.

True.

She sought us out.

We probably disappointed her.

I don’t think we did. She used to listen to us lecture ourside the lecture hall. She’d listen in the foyer.

She liked our pathos. Our perspective … The English working class perspective. Real people perspective, she said.

All I remember is Cicero calling us libtards.

That was to train us. To get us used to adversity.

She criticised my shoes. She said they weren’t smart enough.

That was part of the training. She thought you wouldn’t take yourself seriously without proper shoes. Look, you’re wearing them now. Fucking brogues.

 

And she had a special love for you, Shiva. The way she always kept you back for further instruction. You were, like, her chosen successor. Selected for special attention. As the chosen one. As the future leader. To whom everything was going to be entrusted.

*You act like you’re superior. Like you’ve reached some higher level of consciousness. Like you see farther than everyone else. You act all profound.

Someone, at some point, must have taken you very seriously. To let you be like this. And don’t think I’m just teasing you, philosopher. Teasing is a way of giving you attention. Don’t think I’m playing the coquette.

 

I actually watched a detective series last night. Morse. I watched Morse. An old episode of Morse. Does that disturb you? It does, doesn’t it?

You think we should all be improving ourselves. You think it should always be a matter of edification. I watched Morse, philosopher! That’s the kind of person you’re with: someone who watches Morse.

Morse is about people. And it’s very melancholy. And there are murders. And there’s a plot. Plots are for stupid people – I’ll bet that’s what you think. You probably like talky arthouse. No – slow cinema. Where nothing happens, solemnly. And no one laughs. I like to laugh, philosopher.

Our tastes diverge, philosopher. I ever read a Stephen King book. On holiday. That’s right: I took a Stephen King book on holiday. It wasn’t a novel by one of your guys: by Maurice Blanchot. That you have to have, like, a philosophy PhD to read. One of your joyless, plotless books. That’s supposed to give you a sense of distinction and cultural capital. Fuck you! I read Stephen King!

Which is why we really shouldn’t be together, philosopher. You should stick with others of your kind. How many are of there of your kind, up here in the northeast? You should put that in your dating profile.

No one believes in high culture anymore, philosopher. You know that. It’s part of why you feel so irrelevant. You do feel irrelevant, don’t you? Marginalised. Not part of the common culture. Not one with the ordinary person. There’s just a few of you, clinging on. An enclave. And you don’t even know each other. About films and books about which no one else gives a fuck.

… And classical music, philosopher. You actually listen to classical music. God. You’re a dinosaur. Listen to me: the voice of the common person, philosopher!

You actually read the London Review of Books, philosopher. People like you really exist. You’re not just made up. People actually read the London Review of Books – imagine that. An endangered species, nearly hunted to extinction. Just a few of you left on the continental mainland. A few of you, in Eastern Europe, maybe. Where they still actually have education. Where people are still interested in learning things.

Listen to us talking. We’re not talking about essential things, are we? This isn’t important – not to you. All this is a diversion. It’s keeping you from your work – your true work. What you were put on earth to do – isn’t that right? Your purpose …

This isn’t going to last. This isn’t going anywhere. It’s not like you’re paying attention. You’re listening with one ear.  

I like to listen. I like to watch you.

 

All the things we say when we should be talking about Proper Things, she says. What are Proper Things, philosopher? What’s really worthy of our concern? What matters most to you, philosopher? Isn’t that what philosophy’s about: what matters most? So what does matter? This? You and me, sitting here? Something else? What else?

 

I’m here to torment you, philosopher. I take my role seriously.

 

What if you actually succeeded at something, philosopher – what then? It’d be a shock, wouldn’t it? It’d be the world’s greatest surprise.

 

I get very philosophical up here. I ask a lot of questions. Is that the same thing? I’m talking … asking questions. You should write about questioning, philosopher … Am I bothering you with my questions, philosopher?

You’d like a silent, enigmatic mistress, wouldn’t you?

 

You know what: you’re not sharp. You’re inattentive. You don’t notice things. You don’t see the things I notice. You don’t see what I see. All the things of the world. You don’t look at people, do you? You don’t wonder about people.

 

People, philosopher – don’t you think people are interesting? Or are you sick of people?

Actually, I’m the one who should be sick of people. Our dinner guests. The people we go to the pub with.

I thought you were into people.

I’m bored with our people – my husband’s people. They’re all older than me. They’re all in a different phase of their lives. They getting divorced now. They’re bored of each other. Disgusted with each other. They’re splitting up from boredom. It’s a warning, I say to my husband.

And what does he say?

He doesn’t say anything. He thinks he’s safe.

God, could you be anymore intense? Always trying to batter yourself against the sky, or whatever.

 

You mistakenly think there’s grandeur in suicidalism.

 

All philosophy is life denying. Discuss.

 

I think I’m constitutively bored. Transcendentally bored. I’m waiting for the universe to amuse me. Amuse me, universe …

 

I’m not totally intense like you. I’m not life or death to be or not to be every minute of the fucking day. I don’t like live each minute wondering whether or not to kill myself.

 

I just want something bearable to do. Something not unbearable. That doesn’t make me immediately want to kill myself. I don’t actually want to hurl myself out of a window. Quite unlike you guys, with your death wishes. It’s only intensified your death-desires. Only made them more intense.

 

The prose of the world. Does it disappoint you, philosopher? That’s where I live – in the prose of the world. In the ordinary and the everyday.

 

You’re like some arthouse film protagonist, wandering around and having a crisis. A crisis about everything and everything and the world. Looking moodily into the distance.

But you can’t let yourself do that, either – because you’re British. The world just won’t let you be all arthouse, will it? Must be a terrible disappointment. To be continually brought down to earth.

 

You’d like to be all existential. All French.

 

Because you have a more advanced soul than anyone else. Because you’re deeper. More profound. Because you feel things more profoundly. Is that it?

 

You’re not bothered by all the trivial things. You soul soars higher – is that it? You’re altogether better. You’re plain superior to the rest of us.

 

Anyway, the irony is that I might be the Serious one, capital S. That I have all the Serious thoughts. Because I actually read French. And speak German. And have actually been to those places.

See you’ve mystified philosophy. What you call Philosophy isn’t philosophy, lower case ‘p’. Isn’t just some attempt to think about things clearly and logically. You’ve exalted it. You’ve pushed it up into the sky. You’ve turned it into some kind of Transcendence. But it’s not Transcendence. It’s earthly or its nothing. It’s around us, or it’s noting.

Whereas what you think philosophy is just some humdrum bullshit. Some workaday activity like … like plumbing or something.

Listen to you … you’re into Philosophy, capital P, because you can’t be into Religion, capital R. Because you’re religiously disappointed. Because you long for the All and the Everything and the Nothing – that bullshit … You yearn for Philosophy because you yearn in general. Because you’re ardent in general. Because you’re intense in general. And you can’t find anything else to be intense about.