“O friends, there are no friends!”
With this apocryphal and so dubious deathbed “insight” of Aristotle - supposedly from a witness who just happened to be there - Jacques Derrida begins this wearisome labour of despair at the wrong moment.
Some dawns can be bleak. Yet why, to this apocryphal ascription, does Nietzsche immediately thereafter add this madcap rejoinder, "Oh, enemies, there are no enemies?"
To philosophers friendships are founded upon half-truths. Derrida warns us never to give that one secret away. That would spell the end to our shared houses of cards, if that's what they are.
For philosophers, alas, all reality can be political. And thus friendships are expedient measures. Strategic alliances. We must maintain political correctness.
But as Auden says, books like this are written by guys who are, on one hand, Don Quixotes - their idealistic thinking - and on the other, Sanchos - their Divided Selves. If philosophers follow a peaceful ideal, it is because they know anguish.
Is the ersatz quotation from Aristotle, as you will wonder if you ever venture into this book, in fact Dante’s inscription over the doors of Hell: ‘Give up all hope, all you who enter here? " Was for me.
Aristotle had his practical, above-board theorizing, but Derrida has his black, subterranean Friendship. Two sides of one coin. We moderns tend to follow Derrida, I guess.
For if you get caught up in Derrida’s laborious logic, you’ll soon find yourself amid Charon, the Furies, and other infernal denizens of a hellish political underworld, reeling through unending, flaming infernal crises wrought by political underhandedness.
That's because we've become, according to Derrida, not seekers in good faith after truth, but disillusioned sophisticates trying to sift through the rubble of our dreams ever-again to rebuild them.
Isn’t he tarring ALL of us citizens of the world with a single brush, though? Isn’t he forgetting that some of us have strong, inviolable values - that make our lives worth LIVING?
I dunno, but he seems a bit like a petulantly precocious teen who just refuses to take his meds. But sometimes our meds put us to sleep -
And they can strangle us like the Snakes of Laocoon.
So Derrida begins with a dubious kernel of emotionally-charged thought and reconstructs, over the newly deconstructed familiar landmark of friendship, dark labyrinths of affective logic in its place.
What’s the point?
Real, warm and apolitical Friendship isn’t perfect, but it’s one of the best things we’ve got. And, as I say, it’s real. Can it really be founded on the prohibition never to burn our last bridge to one another?
Ever hear of Jules Verne’s fantastical Voyage to the Centre of the Earth? That’s where he’s taking us here. To the Centre of our Selves.
Into subterranean vistas of dark emotion, peaks and valleys of stalactites and stalagmites - down to a sunless sea. With relentless logic (but note again the contradictory starting point).
I sometimes want to wake Derrida up from his unceasing nightmares just as his fretful mother must have yearned to:
‘Jacques!! Wake up and smell the coffee... sun’s shining and it’s a brand new day out there, for criminie sakes!’
Perhaps...
But, you know, just to be sure, from now on I'm gonna Mark ALL my Friendships:
"Caution - Handle with CARE."