12-7-2015

For some readers, certain writers are avoided simply on account of their re-readability. Few of us have enough time to get wrapped up in writers who could very well speak to us in such a way that we are to devote our whole lives to studying them.

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For one several years into the study of philosophy, it is a subject for which they are greatly protective. Can it not speak on all other systems? Does it not contain within it the seams and borders of science, art and history? This same guardian of the truth, given a few more years, convinced that all his conclusions have contradicted one another, weary that nothing he has come up with himself is original, disappointed that the lion-like figures he once revered really are the vulgar sum of a few crude parts as their detractors figured so long ago, and having realized that most people come intuitively to or already reside within those meager truths offered up by his favored medium, he opts out of any serious consideration for philosophy's ability to save him. 

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I recede from my own perceptions. An attempt to escape hyper-reality? An attempt to find myself? It matters little, for by the time I have retreated far out into the wilderness, I have already forgotten my purpose for going out. Likewise, every submersion into the depths sees me bobbing back to the surface only to smile briefly or crack a frivolous joke before going under again. 

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I overheard two men talking about trying to find a hobby to fill their time up. And here I am trying to let go of a few of mine! 

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I once considered the majority of people to be no better than animals in a quite literal sense. They were, at their least civil, their most vulgar, their least restrained, creatures I pitied like cows in a field. As I move closer to the world, however, I grow closer to them. I see not the animal in myself, but rather, the mere human. I ask myself how many steps away I am from becoming just like them; a wide eye ever turned to a new carnival of adrenaline rushes, violent outbursts and the most reactionary satiations of every kind of addiction? My answer each time is 'not far,' and yet, I envy their having already settled into the state I had not the courage to descend to. 

We are suspicious when people tell us to stop thinking. We suspect that some other deleterious message will infiltrate our minds; some alien force will infect our intellects like a virus. However, for some minds who suffer from an excess of thought, it would be best to try and stop thinking for an interval, if possible, as a way to detox and relearn thought. But this can usually only happen, as it has since ancient times, away from people. But the intoxication of solitude can trap one there so that return is either unpreferred or impossible. And yet, to leave and go back into the world is the only way to measure the change. 

It has been a consistent mantra of the left that people are all really not so different in the end. Though I often resist the myths of the left (hardly satisfied to rest in the right either), I'm as equally often baffled at the frequency in which I hear or read an individual testimony which bares such frightening resemblance to my own. In such moments, no matter the pupil, all solipsism fades as I ask myself, 'Am I worthy of such a comrad?' 

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I much more trust the novel which oscillates between a simple prose and a baroque, ornate prose in the same book. The writer who favors the former is almost always a dogmatist. The latter is so anti-dogmatic that that within me which would hope to have a conversation with the former is automatically sublimated to the role of inferior. And all the while, the reader is going on reading as a reader does. The reader only registers how the work affects her as a whole. What is the paragraph to a reader? 

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I constantly oscillate between feeling like Rilke and Cioran. The former looked at objects until they were revealed to be meanings unto themselves. The latter looked at objects as if to puncture a hole into them, so that what little meaning they had would drain from the bottom. 

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No movement is legitimized by it's proximity to primordiality. One can go back further and further, but there comes a point when all things vanish in time, and the mineral world itself is all that is left. Even that has it's vanishing point. 

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Groups categorized strictly by pejoratives or laudatives are illusions. The former do not self identify with the category. The latter identify with it strictly out of flattery. Whether or not the categories describe an actual culture is of little importance. 

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I'm not perturbed by that thinker who has uttered some thought which I shared and which I felt made me singular in respect to it. I sigh with relief at not having to write it for the first time. 

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Originality is a conglomerate. 

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That unread book whose very presence in your bag causes you to delay it by reading ten others. 

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The need for individuals was not as strong with a smaller population. 

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Most philosophy books end with aphorisms which make sense of all the previous text. Aphorisms, in isolation, save paper and time. 

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How anxious I get when I run the risk of someone seeing me as a means to an end! 

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How quickly I trick myself into those ideas which are folly to me! But I am convinced that they are only tricks because they are folly. That which is beneficial to me in some way, regardless of what intellectual slights of hand were needed to arrive there, cannot possibly qualify in my mind as a trick. 

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Intoxication with chemicals heightens and exalts certain senses. Intoxication with existence exalts life through lowered expectations. 

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The man who pretends he's never heard of anything, in order to test the knowledge of the other. 

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When one becomes bored by the physical beauty of other people. 

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I can't help but admire in Kleist his complete inability to cope with anything. It matters little that others could have suffered as much as him. What matters is that he believed they couldn't have. He was impervious to the self-defeating therapy of pity for others and the style by which he died deligitimized anyone who could claim to suffer as much as him and continue living. 

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Nihilism is the triumph of preference over obligation. 

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Smell arouses the strongest sensation of freedom. 

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Political correctness is the theft that keeps on stealing. It kills cultures long before any remotely foreseeable genocide. 

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It is, perhaps, a mistake to say that the universe itself has no meaning since it contains all meaning.