How one becomes what one is
Ever since I was a young child I have been an avid reader. One of my earliest memories is of being read the hobbit by my father. He would come in before I went to sleep every night and read a few pages. Those few minutes before bed were perhaps the most anticipated part of my day. Eventually I was able to read on my own, and reading went from a bedtime activity to an obsession. It would be an exageration to say that I did nothing but read, but for the most part if I wasn't reading I was counting the time until I could get back to it. Throughout elementary school and my early high school years I had few close friends, and at at least one notable point in grade 4, no friends whatsoever. In my later high school years I overcame much of my earlier shyness and consequently I had less time to read. That said, in my grade 12 year I did 32 independent reading reports for my english class (that is to say I read 32 books beyond the school curriculum during that school year), so I do not mean to imply I stopped reading at a zealous rate.
All of this considered, however, I certainly would not consider myself to have been well read. The vast majority of my childhood reading consisted of sating my imagination with fantasy books and the like. Truth be told, I did not even know such a thing as philosophy existed until my grade 11 year, something which I now find incredible. I simply was not introduced to meaningful literature in my childhood, a fact that I find reflects poorly on the public education system. My family was certainly not the place to find intellectual enlightenment. I do not wish to imply that my parents did a poor job of raising me or that they are not intelligent, in fact I am most grateful for the love and support I received. The thing is, though, that my parents are far more down to earth than I am. My father did well at school and is now a doctor and my mother had, as far as I can figure, excellent grades all the way through her degree. Their mindset however has always remained firmly pragmatic, something which has always been at odds with my imaginative and theoretical approach to life. All this to say that I grew up firmly ignorant of the intellectual world.
All that changed however when my father handed me a short little autobiographical volume which has henceforth firmly remained one of my favorite books. I sometimes find it a bit ironic, in light of what I have said above, that it was my parents who eventually opened my eyes intellectually, and I must admit that they are inclined to read a truly poetic book from time to time. I wonder why it took them so long to show me that side of themselves. So on this occasion, a family vacation, I was looking for something to read and my dad handed me Antoine de Saint-Exupery's "Wind, Sand and Stars". If you are unfamiliar with this book I can scarcely do enough to convince you to read it. It is a masterpiece. I would hesitate to call Saint-Exupery a philosopher, he is rather a poetic aviator. The very ideal of the poetic explorer if you will. What you must imagine is that prior to reading this book I had no idea this type of book existed. I did not know that people existed with such a sense of the spirit of humanity, people who could expose their very soul in print. By the time I finished that book I had firmly made up my mind that I too would be a writer. It always brings a smile to my face to recall the sense of discovery I then felt. As far as I was aware people went about life trying to acheive their materialistic ends. People wrote books to make up stories or to give instuctions, or to explain the scientific structure of the world. Not me, I was going to write books about ideas. Not only about ideas, but about truth, and knowing, and existence. There i was, the summer before my grade 11 year at high school, knowing that what I would be doing with my life was philosophy, but not knowing that such a thing as philosophy existed. And with such a sense of wonderment.
And so, sometime in my grade 11 year I set out in search of what might already exist in this regard (after all, I had found Antoine de Saint-Exupery, there was a chance that there was a couple more people like him, maybe even a dozen!). It quickly became apparent to me, much to my awe, that there was a vast field of writers (philosophers I found out) that dealt with those questions I was asking myself. And at this point I felt like I was truly among friends.
The first book I picked up which could purport to deal with philosophy proper was perhaps one of two or three books mentioning philosophy in my high school library. A poorly written volume, whose title and author I cannot recall, giving a brief description of prominent philosophers throughout history. I was initially turned off by the pedantic and technical philosophy expounded within. Where was the spirit in this writing? I then came upon the entry for Friedrich Nietzsche. Now, whoever the author of this compilation happened to be, he could hardly contain his outright disgust of Nietzsche. His contempt almost exuded from the page. And I was fascinated. How could this man, Nietzsche, who evoked so much hatred and who's ideas were portrayed as universally idiotic and wrong, be a famous philosopher? My curiousity lead me to the municipal library where I picked up Walter Kaufmann's translation "Basic writings of Nietzsche". I must say that I had been vastly mislead on Nietzsche. I find it funny that the reason I picked up Nietzsche in the first place was the incredibly uninformed and outright wrong summary I had found. Ever since then Nietzsche has vied for position as one of my favourite authors. I mean, one must look past his rampant misogyny and other misgivings, but the philosophy underneath is enthralling. And he does it all with such poetic flare. I have never since occasioned upon a philosopher of equal poetic ability.
I am now, predictably enough given my penchant for science, a firmly analytic philosopher. The lack of logical consistency in much of continental philosophy has turned me off of most philosophers of that sort, but I do retain a firm belief that a poetic and passionate approch to philosophy is indispensible, a view which seems to be exceedingly rare amongst my contemporaries.
And so, for those of you who have managed to read this lengthy exposition, I apologize for wasting your time, unless you did indeed happen to get anything out of it. It is just a little bit about how it is that I have become who I am.
All of this considered, however, I certainly would not consider myself to have been well read. The vast majority of my childhood reading consisted of sating my imagination with fantasy books and the like. Truth be told, I did not even know such a thing as philosophy existed until my grade 11 year, something which I now find incredible. I simply was not introduced to meaningful literature in my childhood, a fact that I find reflects poorly on the public education system. My family was certainly not the place to find intellectual enlightenment. I do not wish to imply that my parents did a poor job of raising me or that they are not intelligent, in fact I am most grateful for the love and support I received. The thing is, though, that my parents are far more down to earth than I am. My father did well at school and is now a doctor and my mother had, as far as I can figure, excellent grades all the way through her degree. Their mindset however has always remained firmly pragmatic, something which has always been at odds with my imaginative and theoretical approach to life. All this to say that I grew up firmly ignorant of the intellectual world.
All that changed however when my father handed me a short little autobiographical volume which has henceforth firmly remained one of my favorite books. I sometimes find it a bit ironic, in light of what I have said above, that it was my parents who eventually opened my eyes intellectually, and I must admit that they are inclined to read a truly poetic book from time to time. I wonder why it took them so long to show me that side of themselves. So on this occasion, a family vacation, I was looking for something to read and my dad handed me Antoine de Saint-Exupery's "Wind, Sand and Stars". If you are unfamiliar with this book I can scarcely do enough to convince you to read it. It is a masterpiece. I would hesitate to call Saint-Exupery a philosopher, he is rather a poetic aviator. The very ideal of the poetic explorer if you will. What you must imagine is that prior to reading this book I had no idea this type of book existed. I did not know that people existed with such a sense of the spirit of humanity, people who could expose their very soul in print. By the time I finished that book I had firmly made up my mind that I too would be a writer. It always brings a smile to my face to recall the sense of discovery I then felt. As far as I was aware people went about life trying to acheive their materialistic ends. People wrote books to make up stories or to give instuctions, or to explain the scientific structure of the world. Not me, I was going to write books about ideas. Not only about ideas, but about truth, and knowing, and existence. There i was, the summer before my grade 11 year at high school, knowing that what I would be doing with my life was philosophy, but not knowing that such a thing as philosophy existed. And with such a sense of wonderment.
And so, sometime in my grade 11 year I set out in search of what might already exist in this regard (after all, I had found Antoine de Saint-Exupery, there was a chance that there was a couple more people like him, maybe even a dozen!). It quickly became apparent to me, much to my awe, that there was a vast field of writers (philosophers I found out) that dealt with those questions I was asking myself. And at this point I felt like I was truly among friends.
The first book I picked up which could purport to deal with philosophy proper was perhaps one of two or three books mentioning philosophy in my high school library. A poorly written volume, whose title and author I cannot recall, giving a brief description of prominent philosophers throughout history. I was initially turned off by the pedantic and technical philosophy expounded within. Where was the spirit in this writing? I then came upon the entry for Friedrich Nietzsche. Now, whoever the author of this compilation happened to be, he could hardly contain his outright disgust of Nietzsche. His contempt almost exuded from the page. And I was fascinated. How could this man, Nietzsche, who evoked so much hatred and who's ideas were portrayed as universally idiotic and wrong, be a famous philosopher? My curiousity lead me to the municipal library where I picked up Walter Kaufmann's translation "Basic writings of Nietzsche". I must say that I had been vastly mislead on Nietzsche. I find it funny that the reason I picked up Nietzsche in the first place was the incredibly uninformed and outright wrong summary I had found. Ever since then Nietzsche has vied for position as one of my favourite authors. I mean, one must look past his rampant misogyny and other misgivings, but the philosophy underneath is enthralling. And he does it all with such poetic flare. I have never since occasioned upon a philosopher of equal poetic ability.
I am now, predictably enough given my penchant for science, a firmly analytic philosopher. The lack of logical consistency in much of continental philosophy has turned me off of most philosophers of that sort, but I do retain a firm belief that a poetic and passionate approch to philosophy is indispensible, a view which seems to be exceedingly rare amongst my contemporaries.
And so, for those of you who have managed to read this lengthy exposition, I apologize for wasting your time, unless you did indeed happen to get anything out of it. It is just a little bit about how it is that I have become who I am.
posted by Jordan at 11:01 PM
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