Blog 20 -- 4/30/14

In light of Wednesday’s class being canceled (at least I think it was, as per Thad’s proposition during Monday’s class), I would like to take the opportunity to discuss what I felt worked, and what did not, for this course. For starters, I absolutely loved the student-led lectures; however, I think the delivery of the material also permitted a lot of unnecessary discussion. As I have touched upon in some prior blog posts, there was a tendency for a select few students to get caught up on trivial technicalities in philosophical jargon or pragmatics. Alas, this sort of vulnerability is the product of the conversation-rich environment which was sought from the outset. In other words, there isn’t much that can be done, preventatively speaking, unless Thad were revert back to the traditional teaching style—but again, this defeats the purpose of, and often impedes upon, truly open discussion. As frustrating, frequent, and frustratingly frequent as these digressions were, I completely support the open-discussion approach to this course as it seems to mimic, and further stimulate, the process of philosophical deliberation. Furthermore, I believe having students teach the material is a requisite for optimal comprehension. This is because students tend to think like other students, not like well-versed philosophers. It is no surprise that the material presented, while fundamental to the understanding of existentialism, is considered largely esoteric to many. This said, student-led discussions make the material more accessible, presenting it in terms with which the majority can relate. One suggestion that I might offer for making the material even more engaging concerns the blog post requirements. In my experience, myself included, students tend to make only as many responses to others’ posts as are required of them. Needless to say, this isn’t true discussion—this is one individual creating a post and another individual responding to it, once, with neither party remotely interested in returning to the topic. If authentic engagement is the objective, I would suggest making multiple responses to the same topic a requirement for the course. All in all, I thoroughly enjoyed the material, the discussion and the growth I experienced as a result of having participated in existential dialogue—so thank you, PHI 304!

Yours Tru.ly

Blog 19 -- 4/28/14

During our last discussion (pun most certainly intended) we spent a great deal of time tossing around our personal takes on existentialism. I was quite surprised that the distinction between Meaning and meaning was revisited, and to such a great extent. I truly felt that leading up to this class, existentialism was revealing itself to me as increasingly atheistic. And yet, with an understanding of the subject as being the human struggle to define the self in terms of subjective and/or objective purpose, I am forced to once again reconsider the idea of existentialism as fundamentally atheistic. Despite our exploration of religious existentialists like Kierkegaard and Dostoevsky, I felt nothing necessarily religious about their philosophies—well, at least not insomuch as someone like Nietzsche’s gung ho advocacy against religion. Sure, the formers’ religious inclinations were made evident throughout their works, but in my opinion, the messages they presented could have just as easily been offered without the religious skew.

Let’s take Kierkegaard’s notion of a subjective faith for example: Why can’t some worldly paradigm serve the same purpose as his subjective conception of God? During my junior year of high school, I had an atheist friend with whom I often discussed my faith. One afternoon, during one of our regular bouts on religion, I suggested he try looking for God in the things he loves. A good while later, he was speaking in front of our class and called upon our conversation—saying how he felt he had found God in music. Sitting in the audience, it certainly sounded as though instead of coming about God through music, he had simply found a replacement for Him. Is this not an instance of faith being replaced with a more material foundation; more importantly, is a mundane basis for orienting oneself in life, such as this, a viable, and sustainable, alternative to the faith life (subjective or objective)?

In a rather longwinded attempt to exemplify my uncertainty surrounding the essentiality of faith to the philosophies of religious existentialists such as Kierkegaard or Dostoevsky, I have attempted to bring this discussion full-circle: I cannot help but smirk at the oddly existential feeling I am left with after having revisited (and with such class-wide enthusiasm) the notion of cosmic purpose in spite of what my preconceptions of the subject have deemed otherwise atheistic in nature. 

Yours Tru.ly

Blog 18 -- 4/23/14

While I tend to actively avoid feminist preaching, I admire the tone Hazel Barnes assumes in her work, “Sartre and Feminism”. Her unbiased approach appears to be the most effective means of representing both sides of the argument, which is essential to all forms of progressive dialogue.

The biggest problem I have with feminist blaspheming, regardless of the subject (but certainly relevant to the discussion of Sartre’s works), is no different than the problem feminists strike with even the slightest instances of male dominance: Advocates of male superiority and feminists alike often overlook the importance of what is being said and mistake overemphasized technicalities for indications of absolute truth. The best example I have to support this equal-but-opposite assertion is in reference to the Bible, better yet, longstanding Christian tradition in general. Aside from instances in the Bible wherein male dominance is often cited, I even hear of female extremists scoffing at the notion of a male god-figure—a most ridiculous act of rebellion if you ask me. Fact of the matter is, the importance one puts on God being male or female detracts from His word. Further yet, the way I see it, the more an individual becomes absorbed and obsessed with God being this or that, the less he/she actually cares about what is actually meant by the text.

If it makes any difference at all, I’ll be the first to admit that gender inequality is real, and has been for some time, often as a result of misinterpreted and conflated religious doctrine. However, this does not justify some of the far-fetched claims that feminism is suggesting the pseudo-existence of male superiority is responsible for. It seems like every day I hear speculation of racism, gender mistreatment, religious conflict, you name it; but I’m skeptical of the legitimacy behind each case, for everything amounts to little more than a power-struggle and it’s not uncommon to find extortion behind the wildest of these schemes.

Yours Tru.ly

Blog 17 -- 4/21/14

In assessing the claim that in others we find our identity, my initial thoughts--like many others in the class--were to consider the existence of feral children. Unlike some of the psychologically historical examples offered by my peers, though, I was instinctively drawn to the myth of Rome's foundation whereby brothers Romulus and Remus were raised by a she-wolf. I was tempted to dismiss this example as useless considering the whole premise of our discussion revolved around the origin of self in the individual; seeing as there were two brothers, this hardly seemed appropriate at first glance. And yet, as I thought about it, I came to the conclusion that this wouldn't be such a bad example after all. Granted, it would be nice to also observe a case in which only one individual lives out such a life, but I think the instance wherein two "unprimed" individuals are involved is equally informative by virtue of observing whether or not the two come to understand themselves with respect to the other (without any additional human influences). If this is how things would have played out (instead of the historically fatal result that did), then one could make an argument that man's understanding of himself is very much determined by his relation to others and their influence on him. 

The more I think about our discussion on the essentiality of others to our own identity, the more I toy with the question I offered during class: What happens to the identity of a person living as a recluse? Unlike the examples of feral children that suppose the child is devoid of human contact from birth, the recluse has in fact "had the potential" (I phrase it this way because Sartre's understanding of identity is still very much theoretical in my opinion) to understand himself through others. At least in the examples I have considered, it isn't until later in life (usually after some deep introspection or cosmic realization of sorts) that the individual pulls away from society to live a solitary lifestyle. At this point, Sartre could certainly argue that the influence by others up to that point is what determines the individual's identity. And yet, I wonder: Without further human interaction, will the recluse forevermore understand his/her self in terms of those human interactions that preceded his lifestyle change? Or, is he/she capable of further developing the notion of the self without human interaction (meaning that identity-by-others is merely a requisite for consciousness, but once a preliminary understanding of the self is developed, the input of others loses necessity for subsequent change)?

Yours Tru.ly

Blog 16 -- 4/16/14

An inquiry was made last Wednesday--during our discussion of "Bad Faith"--as to whether or not it is possible for someone to exhibit bad faith in real-time. After much deliberation over subjects vaguely relevant to the subject-matter, as seems to be the norm, it would seem the question remains unanswered. To this I shall try my very best to conjure up an appropriate response, one that acknowledges time as being of utmost importance to Sartre's bad faith. To begin, let us recall that as per the definition offered to us by the afternoon's speakers, transcendence is very much future-oriented. Conversely, seeing as facticity refers to things as they are, one might assume that this element of bad faith could ONLY exist in the present as neither the past nor the future can definitively speak to how things actually are currently. And yet, we find that bad faith cannot exist without one or the other (past or future). Present and future are necessary to retrospectively validate whether or not one has acted in bad faith, a posteriori. In essence, whether one presently reflects on actions of the past, or whether (s)he will reflect in the future on actions of the present or past is not important. Rather, it is the reflection--which, by its very definition requires time to separate the reflection from the event upon which one reflects--that is important here. That said, to suppose that an individual can act in bad faith in real-time is to suppose that reflection can also take place in the same sense.  Earlier in the semester, Thad suggested this could be, and is, done. I am not convinced, at least not the extent of reflection to which I am referring (the kind that has an individual staring at a blank wall for an indeterminate amount of time). In summation, I do not believe that an individual is capable of acting in bad faith "instantaneously"; rather, I would argue Sartre's understanding of facticity and transcendence imply a sort of temporal dichotomy at the root of his bad faith.

Yours Tru.ly

Blog 15 -- 4/9/14

A good many interpretations of Solomon’s selection on Jean-Paul Sarte were offered on Wednesday, but only one resonated with my own. The student suggested that ‘I am only responsible for those things I, myself, decide are responsibilities.’ This was immediately countered by opposing views which suggest man has social duties and that such a paradigm could only be supported by solitary living. In his response to those counterarguments, the gentleman provided us with a literal example of his responsibility to ensure no children are hit as he drives his car and how this responsibility, though perhaps a ubiquitously-recognized duty to his fellow man, is no formal obligation at all.

While the aforementioned reference may seem a bit farfetched, I believe the foundation of the argument gives rise to some very applicable implications. For starters, this notion of personally conceiving one’s own responsibility is consistent with what Sartre says on page 211 in Robert Solomon’s Existentialism when he states “…one will never be able to explain one’s action by reference to a given and specific human nature”. By this Sartre denies the legitimacy of the herd mentality as a force worthy of bearing any influence over man’s existence; furthermore, the individual ought not to accept responsibility over anything that jeopardizes the maintenance of his own freedom. The second instance derived from our classmate’s analogy lies at the opposite end of the spectrum—the other extreme—wherein one’s responsibilities has the potential to become conflated with the will of God. Unfortunately, the sort of absence of freedom to which I speak that leads to widespread religious ignorance and violence is a much more prevalent threat than the former “unrestricted freedom”. This lifestyle can be summarized by its lack of freedom entirely, the antithesis of Sartre’s “man is freedom” (211).

However, both extremes—free and enslaved thinking, god or godless paradigms—produce individuals who see themselves as above the rest. In the former, man has no obligation to anything but himself and therefore the concerns of others are not to be his own; in the latter, man orients himself entirely about God and His will (It is true that for many, God’s will resides in the service of others; however, for some, His will takes on a more violent identity. In the end, all is for God and nothing—good nor bad—is truly for one’s fellow man).

Yours Tru.ly

Blog 14 -- 4/7/14

Barrett, I must say, you have an uncanny ability to carry the philosophical themes presented in class far beyond the realm of relevance. For that, I would say you exemplify the select few (whose names may be inferred from my previous blogs) who tend to get wrapped up in the technicalities of existential arguments. Time and again in class we hear an enthusiastic individual rattle on about how physics, biology, this-or-that wouldn't support such claims as are being made in particular text. To that I must ask: What good does assessing the worth of a thing, B, do us if we are limited to only perceiving it through the lens of a different thing, A? Similarly, Barrett, if you assess the value of philosophizing by its instrumental value alone, you overlook a great deal of its significance. For example, I thoroughly enjoy contemplating life and the many themes presented in class. And yet, I do nothing with this. I simply relish in the pleasure it gives me. If you try to measure the instrumental worth of this aesthetic appreciation you will most certainly find none. To better elucidate my claim, let's look to the often-cited research that suggests religious individuals tend to be happier, on average. This says nothing about whether or not those sampled actually make use of their religious dogma in everyday life; but religion is undeniably valuable to their psychological well-being. The function of philosophizing can be understood in a similar light, and for many, it is. This sort of approach to philosophy coincides nicely with Heidegger's "we cannot do anything with philosophy, [and yet] might not philosophy...do something with us?" as presented on page 150 of Robert Solomon's Existentialism. This is to suggest that while the reader may not be actively doing anything with the ideas put forth, the ideas themselves may be actively shaping the reader (so, there, maybe something is actually being done after all).

Yours Tru.ly

Blog 13 -- 4/2/14

In response to the young woman who has identified herself as a previous student of Thad's and continues to attend our discussions:

This past Wednesday, in speaking on your own experiences with death, you made mention of a frame-of-thought that I believe eludes the majority of people. To the severely depressed (myself included), the appeal of death is almost dreamlike. As I recall, you alluded beautifully to this temptation when you said 'Sometimes, all I want to do is die,' or something to that end. In essence, this isn't so much a pursuit of something more pleasurable as it is an avoidance of one's pain and misery. During my own psychotic episodes, it was a sense of calm and stillness that I saw in death that attracted me to it, a relief from all struggles to exist. 

To this end, I believe a perspective such as this is very much consistent with Albert Camus' assessment of the three responses to Absurdity. Ironically enough (considering my intimate relationship with suicidal thoughts), my group was assigned to Camus for this semester's presentation and my preconceptions of how others view suicide couldn't have been more correct. I recall that while brainstorming on how to conduct our class discussion, one of the group members suggested that we require certain sections of the class to assume a predetermined position, regardless of where an individual's own convictions may lie. The same group member proceeded to substantiate this approach by suggesting that no one would seriously consider suicide as a viable option. This is where he was wrong; but I just sat quietly shaking my head with a subtle smirk on my face. Fact of the matter is, death is very real and can be very attractive to some. Take it from me, and the young lady who opted to share her life with us on Wednesday: Perceptions of death are as unique as the individual.

Yours Tru.ly

Blog 12 -- 3/31/14

Week 11 Blog 1 – Truman Combs

I have known for some time now that I am someone who gets caught up on the fine details of things. I recommend this type of perspective to no one, for I attribute to it a great deal of unnecessary stress in my life. And yet, it is this same attention-to-detail that I believe defines who I am as a person—a person who, in possessing this selective acuity, I have come to appreciate for that very reason. Having said this, I wish to call upon some hastily overlooked remarks made by Seth during Monday’s discussion on understanding the notion of being. Should you recall, I am the individual who requested that Seth reiterate his comprehension of being in relation to one’s peers. According to him, in order for one to realize the meaning of being, one must understand his/her relation to each other individual around him. In other words, I would need to understand every facet of every other individual’s life in relation to my own, in addition to understanding the entirety of my own existence, in order to conceptualize being, or as Heidegger calls it, Da-sein. I do not agree with this logic. Rather, I think the importance of knowing humanity beyond oneself to Da-sein lies in the relation of oneself to the community of selves, and not in the relation of oneself to all other selves individually. To better explicate the difference, here’s an interdisciplinary analogy: In the natural world, how a thing functions is very much dependent on the scale at which it is being observed. For example, understanding the physical properties of a single water molecule says nothing about the hydrodynamics of a stream. To this end, I would argue that an individual’s relation to his peers are microscopic and macroscopic phenomena, respectively. However, Seth’s proposition is very much a microscopic-to-microscopic perspective. Simply “totaling” all of a person’s individual relationships does not equate to how said person relates to the community as an entity in and of itself. It is this definition of relation to one’s “environment” that I believe Heidegger frequents in his work.

Yours Tru.ly

Blog 11 -- 3/19/14

A question I was left with following the conclusion of our discussion on “The Grand Inquisitor” concerns that of the relationship between man’s freedom and his freedom of conscience (specifically with respect to good and evil). At first glance, I see how the latter may be considered a subsidiary of the former, and how freedom of conscience and man’s freedom (as a whole) may influence each other. My initial assumption was freedom of conscience was simply a supporting argument for the overarching theme of man’s freedom. Why, then, would Dostoevsky—despite being only a single line—make such a profound distinction between the two ideas, as seen on page 54 of Solomon’s Existentialism? The Grand Inquisitor asserts, “Without a stable conception of the object of life, man would not consent to go on living, and would rather destroy himself than remain on earth, though he had bread in abundance” (54). Prior to this statement, the cardinal speaking seems to suggest that it is the earthly bread, a symbol of worship, which gives man reason to live. This is to say that bread alone, a gift worthy of unrequited worship, cannot sustain man. The cardinal continues by introducing the related, but entirely independent, concept of freedom of conscience. The distinction between the two ideas becomes evident in light of man’s willingness to renounce Him when faced with free choice, as discussed on page 55. If, then, man is willing to dismiss earthly bread in the absence of an object to follow, and humanity is also willing to deny His image and truth when confronted with free choice (regarding good and evil), is he (man) openly willing to serve the anti-Christ provided earthly bread is bestowed upon the masses and the distinctions between good and evil (presumably presented as the latter [evil] and deviations from it considering the nature of the anti-Christ) are made accessible? (Both of which, in reflecting on Satan’s authority and abilities in the Bible, seem for him/her a feasible operation).

Yours Tru.ly

Blog 10 -- 3/17/14

I will start by saying that I am by no means convinced that the alignment of desire and reason will lead to an entirely foreseeable way-of-life. While I agree that should the two paradigms ubiquitously converge man would lose all identity and freedom-of-choice, I do not foresee the entirety of humanity being subjected to this lifestyle. If anything, certain populations or even sub-populations may one day endorse such predetermined existence, but definitely not everyone. The fact that Dostoevsky's logic requires an all-or-nothing investment to hold true lends itself to never actually being fulfilled (in the sense of absolute rationalization, and thus total elimination of desire); this is true because if those guided by reason and those guided by desire were to ever coexist (which I am suggesting to be the furthest extreme to which reason reigns over man, and no more), then provided Dostoevsky's rationale for a rational world as being wholly predetermined, the tabulated lifestyle of reason would not hold up against the unpredictability of desire. In other words, so long as desire exists to introduce stochasticity into the world, the nature of man is incalculable regardless of the mathematical predictions associated with rational living.

Another theme I wish to touch upon is that of ingratitude and its relation to the text. Dostoevsky argues that we are desirous because we are ungrateful, a proposition with which I agree; however, in making the connection between desire and reason, Dostoevsky implicitly requires that we assume ungratefulness and reason are equally at odds, which I must contest. If I may: Since when can the prototypical wise-man who stole away to the mountain-top for solitary reflection not be ungrateful for the burden with which he has been endowed as sage to those afflicted by mundane matters that so often abuse his prowess (assume he is considered wise because he is rational)?

Yours Tru.ly

Blog 9 -- 3/5/14

Week 8 Blog 2 – Truman Combs

In a brief dialogue between Seth and Ben, those in attendance were exposed to the epitome of the debate over whether or not language is necessary for thought. I’m not one to straddle-the-fence, but I would argue both positions are circumstantially observable in nature. Seth introduces the discussion by suggesting that humans are capable of engaging in thought without the need to first consult the language associated with those particular ideas. Conversely, Ben argues that regardless of whether or not we are conscious of it (in fact, I would say that this step is fulfilled subconsciously by most), unspoken thought still relies on linguistics—without which, thoughts would not develop as they do.

The position I take on the matter is somewhat of a synthesis of the two aforementioned. As far as Seth’s logic goes, I believe that for people who do not possess a language (i.e. indigenous populations) are capable of this type of linguistic-less ideation, but not us, or any other population possessing language-based communication for that matter. I would argue that for populations dependent on these more developed forms of communication, language has become such a significant part of our lives that language and thought become somewhat inseparable. This is to say that, as Ben suggests, language always precedes thought—even if instantaneously and subconsciously—and, in considering just how developed one’s vocabulary is, may actually limit it. However, I also believe that Seth’s position serves to restrict the application of Ben’s point given the existence of populations that do not possess such a dependency. They do, however, exhibit the ability to form ideas and exchange thoughts, whereby refuting the absolutism of Ben’s position. 

Blog 8 -- 3/3/14

If we are to assume that a slave is to the herd as an individual is to a master, then I take issue with a statement presented by one of the day’s speakers who says “you can’t have an individual before the herd.” I disagree. I think what Nietzsche means is that for the vast majority of people, for those initially endowed with the herd morality, this is the case. What about those who possess the master morality from the outset? The conclusion made by the aforementioned speaker presupposes all of humanity follows the same basic trajectory: Humans all start out as having the slave morality and either transcend into a state of master morality, or remain static within the herd. The problem I have with this stems from the nature versus nurture debate insomuch that there exist inherent differences between individuals that are not the product of environmental exposure. This is an important point because it touches on the distinctions that are evident within the master morality. While there certainly exists a hierarchy of sorts within the herd—characterized by a continuum of progression representing the path along which a slave may find himself in his journey toward becoming a master—this differs greatly from the hierarchy witnessed among masters. Here we can see that the “extent” of mastery is far more discrete. This results from the nature of what it means to be an individual, a master. Whereas those subscribing to the herd all lack the same quality, the will to power, individuals classified as masters differ in their objectives, and thus in their extent of mastery. This lends itself to some notable inconsistencies within the master morality, making it much more subject to externalities (that may or may not influence the trajectory of the individual).

Yours Tru.ly

Blog 7 -- 2/24/14

It was suggested during today’s discussion, and I am sure Nietzsche would agree, that good for good’s sake is “better” than good for God’s sake. Now, if we think back to our example on whether or not there exists such a thing as a selfless act, we seemed to arrive at the conclusion that in the end the motive wasn’t important. How is this instance any different? I’m going to be completely honest: I am quite certain that if there existed no God for me to subscribe to, I would renounce a fair share of what some may consider to be the ethical nature of my being (sorry Kierkegaard, not your Ethical). Frankly, I despise my so-called duties to humanity insomuch that I would find no reason to maintain them in the absence of my god-figure, for whom I abide by such expectations. It just so happens that the gentleman who articulated the aforementioned conclusion also responded to those who think as I do. His assertion (more or less): If the removal of religious doctrine gives way to one that is immoral, then the individual was not moral from the outset. I have no quarrel with this. Why? Because I know first-hand that for some, myself included, morality has always been traced back to religion. For this type of person, there is no reconceptualization of morality, what has been will always be. One might compare this conceptual framework’s trajectory to that of learning a language: After about age seven, it becomes exponentially more difficult to learn a new language. Likewise, and more often than not, these ideas are instilled in the religious demographic at an early age, a critical period in life when fundamental teachings play a disproportionately large role in dictating the philosophical journey of an individual’s life. While I have digressed to a degree, the point I am trying to make is all the more evident: If such a large proportion of the human population relies on religious teaching for their morality, and the outcome of a good for good’s sake or God’s sake is the same, why is good for good’s sake better (if in fact eliminating good for God’s sake has the potential to result in no good at all)? Further yet, does it matter?

Yours Tru.ly

Blog 6 -- 2/19/14

Suffice it to say, upon further introspection and consideration of the text, I agree with the audience member who suggested Kierkegaard's Spheres represent a trichotomy into the extremes—wherein no one exists. It is no difficult task to entertain the thought of these encompassing all of humanity insomuch as horoscopes or personality tests, ambiguous as their results may be, tell us exactly who we are. Rather, it is much more likely that these Spheres are not spheres at all, but exist as a continuum (if at all) such that one may fall in between two categories, if not amongst all three, which brings me to my second point: If one is represented, at least to some extent, by multiple categories, is Kierkegaard’s framework of linear transition insufficient? It follows from this logic that an individual could exist in both the Aesthetic and Religious Spheres, but not the Ethical. According to Kierkegaard, however, in addition to these stages existing as discrete (contrary to that which I allude), there is an orderly and predictable flow between them. If, as Thad points out, some readily identifiable features differentiate the Aesthetic from the Ethical (namely rules and duty), then can we also elucidate the features that separate the Aesthetic from the Religious and therefore circumnavigate the Ethical Sphere altogether as we journey to the so-called pinnacle of our being (i.e. if the aesthete comes about accepting rules, duty and sin all at once, could he or she bypass the Ethical Sphere?)? Let’s reconsider—with respect to this question—Kierkegaard’s premise of existing only in one Sphere at a given time. Now, must one still follow the exact order that Kierkegaard offers us, from Aesthetic to Ethical to Religious? Say, for example, one has identified with the Religious Sphere for as long as he can remember, but not long ago experienced a “falling-out” with his faith. Feeling as though he has been deprived of countless luxuries due to the restrictions imposed upon him by his rules, duties, and faith, the man assumes a life of immediate satisfaction and gratification. Has he not just transitioned from Religious to Aesthetic without passage through the Ethical?

Yours Tru.ly 

Blog 5 -- 2/17/14

While the majority of the day’s dialogue offered confounding, yet enriching—thus ultimately constructive—thematic deliberation, I believe the seemingly unchallenged notion of objective uncertainty’s applicability to normal passions remains fallacious. I explicitly recall a speaker from the audience suggesting that the objective uncertainty, the apple teasing us from a branch just beyond our grasp, need not be restricted to infinite passions, but I suspect Kierkegaard would contest. Doesn’t the fact that our normal passions are inherently mundane, and thus not infinite in nature, preclude these worldy passions from being considered uncertain. After all, normal passions are defined by reality, the antithesis of uncertainty in this context. That being said, I concur that objective uncertainty need not be restricted to cosmological interpretations, but I also feel as though these passions, while not necessarily traditionally infinite, require some fundamental obscurity about them. For example, one might consider their infinite passion to be that of true love, traditionally speaking. This does not rely on some supernal entity for definition, but the concept itself escapes reality in the same sense that death eludes us.

On another note, despite having read through Kierkegaard’s arguably esoteric prose, a part of me still considers his push for a subjective god-figure reason enough that objective uncertainty ought to be referred to as subjective uncertainty. After all, if we are in constant chase after this independently conceived entity, what about this is objective? There is nothing objective whatsoever about a subjective god-figure that suggests the term should be referred to as such.

Yours Tru.ly

Blog 4 -- 2/12/14

A recurring topic in both the group’s presentation and the text is that of the relationship between finitude and reality as contrasting infinitude and possibility. This novel dichotomy is coupled under the overarching theme of anxiety, which, as Kierkegaard points out, is critical to the development of one’s faith. As a victim of chronic anxiety in a strictly medical sense (which I acknowledge is not the type of anxiety to which Kierkegaard speaks) and having been raised as a devout Roman Catholic, I must confess to remaining confused by the position being made here. In a religious sense, I can certainly attest to a sort of “high” that deep spiritual reflection often produces in me. One might even say I derive a great deal of pleasure from the contemplative induction of fear resulting from uncertainty in faith, a paradigm that has shaped my life from its very outset. As strange as this deliberate meddling with fearfulness may sound, I believe this oddity might be the only similarity between what I feel and what Kierkegaard preaches. Moreover, I am not convinced that possibility surpasses reality in its density, as suggested on page 30 of the Solomon’s Existentialism. I imagine, while not expressed as such, that Kierkegaard’s argument is grounded in the unpredictability of possibility that—to the trained eye, those who wish to concern themselves—lays the foundation for anxiety in an otherwise certain reality. This brings about the following question: Is the true determinant of whether or not reality is inferior to possibility in its capacity to give rise to anxiety solely the product of time? Is it safe to assume, from Kierkegaard’s logic, that reality always refers to the present, while possibility always refers to the future? Are these relationships consistent as hard-and-true as that of infinitude and possibility as opposing finitude and reality?

Blog 3 -- 2/10/14

Monday's discussion of themes present in The Fall led to some interesting conclusions, one of which seemed to be left unchallenged, or at least tossed aside as insignificant. The group presenting--and by group, I mean Seth--not only recapitulated, but appeared to support, the notion of friendship as an act of selfishness. Now, I am not necessarily in disagreement with the rationale, nor am I suggesting an alternative hypothesis, but I do feel the need to bring to light some other things for consideration. For starters, the term selfish bears a largely negative connotation--if not inherently, then certainly courtesy of Seth's implementation as such. This in mind, in conjunction with the fact that friendship as being selfish was left as though nothing shy of absolute truth, made for an interesting thought: If befriending someone is always attributable to the benefit of the self, which, needless to say, is morally questionable, is the act's antithesis (pursuing a life devoid of friendships, a life of seclusion), whereby cherishing one's own isolation, any less selfish? For example, during my first two years at ASU, I lived a life somewhat similar to that of a hermit. Everyday, I'd go to class and then return straight home. Not once did I go out of my way to meet new people, go to parties, explore college life, or the likes. Truth is, I loved being alone. Granted, I had a wonderful girlfriend, so I was never truly alone in the traditional sense, but I avoided extracurricular interaction at all costs so as to preserve my own solitude, to protect my time alone, to relish in the simplicity I called my life. Was I being selfish? Undoubtedly. Is this sort of selfishness any better, or worse, than that described during the presentation and depicted in Camus' The Fall? Or, perhaps selfishness, as we know it, is unsuitable for either situation. After all, both scenarios comprise the very ebb and flow of being introspective, all-the-while social, creatures. 

Yours Tru.ly

Blog 2 -- 2/3/14

http://youtu.be/VdoPmuNU7AQ

In light of this afternoon's discussion, I encourage those reading this to navigate to the YouTube link (above) where you will find a snippet from the 2001 film Believer. (If prospective philosophical deliberation is not incentive enough, perhaps Ryan Gosling as lead role will suffice--ladies, that means you.)

I call upon this film for multiple reasons, all of which revolve around it being a loose interpretation and contemporary take on today's readings. First, and perhaps of lesser import, is the not-so-obvious presence of all three of Camus' responses to absurdity--all tightly bound up, and subsequently unwound, in the film's terminally conflicted protagonist, Danny. From the outset (consider viewing the entire movie for full comprehension of the following references), Danny is seen rebelling--quite literally--against those who embody Camus' cosmological approach, namely those practicing Judaism. In this instance, though an unrealistically extreme analogy at best, the young neo-nazi assumes the position of what Camus terms "revolt", whereby renouncing the existence of a god. In time, Danny's true identity is disclosed as having been raised Jewish, implying his exposure to, and opportunity to consider, one of Camus' alternatives: acceptance of cosmic purpose. In the end, as seen in the included YouTube video, it is the clash between the previously mentioned responses to absurdity that forces our protagonist to invoke Camus' third and final option: suicide. Danny's character engages in all three of Camus' responses to absurdity at one point or another throughout the duration of the film, but it isn't until after his death (a negligible disparity between the film's delivery and the delivery of our reading selection) that we delve into a more literal representation of The Myth of Sisyphus. The conclusion of the film does a particularly lovely job getting at the piece's gist. Like the gods who made Sisyphus aware of his own hopeless efforts, Danny is also informed of the futility inherent to his punishment. I do, however, find it rather disconcerting that in Camus' account, we are left with no substantial rationale or tangible justification for imagining Sisyphus as happy, despite its thematic significance. In the film, however, we see Danny as though attempting to maintain his obliviousness of the futility of his efforts--a sort of means of coping with the meaninglessness of his ascension. How, then, are we to go about envisioning Sisyphus as happy when the story itself bears such negative connotation throughout and leaves us with no ways to consider otherwise?

Yours Tru.ly

Blog 1 -- 1/13/14

I'm not quite sure which is more disheartening: the overwhelming possibility of there existing no self--as delineated in the introduction of Robert Solomon's Existentialism and shared by countless existentialists and postmodernists alike (xvii); or, perhaps it's the realization that Solomon's articulation has served only to confound my own, personal understanding of existentialism as it was introduced to me in years past. Most simply defined, existence precedes essence, or so I was taught. In other words, one would come into existence before acquiring or assigning purpose for his or her being. This becomes problematic for me in light of my inability to separate the notion of self from essence, their relationship as follows: the self is one’s essence made manifest through existence. If, then, 1) individuals exist and 2) they possess a permutation of characteristics with which to distinguish them from other individuals (regardless of when essence came about), then I would argue that it follows from these premises that individuals exhibit those requisites necessary for self-identity and thus, the self to which I speak. Or, is it that in denying the notion of self, Solomon and other scholars embodying this philosophy are similarly denying existence and/or essence as well? Are there sincere responses to this quandary which might suggest existence, essence and the concept of self needn't all rely upon one another for at least one to be objectively true? It remains that I know little of just how Solomon and the likes define the self. How are any of these terms defined by the world’s most prominent philosophers, contemporary or not, for that matter? These are questions I seek to explore in greater detail as I continue to formulate my own ideas about existentialism and the role it will come to play in my life over its course. 

Yours Tru.ly