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208 pages, Hardcover
First published September 29, 2020
All philosophers are trolls. No offense, Jefferson. But that’s really the whole project, isn’t it? Trolling common sense, trolling reality. What if you aren’t real, what if we don’t know what we actually know, what if all this stuff we take for granted can’t be taken for granted, and what if we ignore all the realities we act on in everyday life and instead push our thinking way past all norms and givens of observed behaviour, into this inhuman domain of pure logic, and see what messed-up and counterintuitive conclusions we can draw? I mean, that’s basically an entire discipline based on a fancy form of intellectual trolling. It’s right there at the dawn of the subject. Socrates was the first and worst. Massive, obscene troll. What if good isn’t good, what if justice isn’t justice, what if the virtues are really vices, what if nothing is real? Apart from everything else, he’s constantly contradicting himself. The dialogues are really just him trolling his mates and them being polite about it. Socrates, the original and greatest troll. He would have loved the comments section.
He hugged like a natural non-hugger who had taken professional instruction in how to overcome his instincts and hug, and then found, greatly to his own surprise, that he liked it. Which, in fact, was what he was, and the reason I know is that I gave him the course, “I Hate Hugging: Overcoming Your Fear of Intimacy Through Touch”, as a fortieth-birthday present.
The first chair is an Italian macroeconomist of about my age. He spoke some sense about econometrics but then veered off into some whiffle about dialogue and conversation and paradigms. Overall, poor. He was succeeded by a female Eastern European literature professor in early middle age who had hair with a blue streak in it and purple glasses. Also bangles. There ensued a series of platitudes, falsehoods, mischaracterisations, illiteracies — an entire thesaurus of modern nonsense. The ostensible subject of her speech was the continuing contemporary importance of myth, but from the point of view of a properly trained mind — i.e. mine — there was no content at all.
I may have fallen asleep. I’m not sure. What happened next was in the margin between dreams and full consciousness. I knew where I was and what I was doing, but my volition seemed to have been dialled down so that I could not move or speak. I saw the handle of the door, directly across from where I was sitting, start to move. It was easy to tell, because it was an irregular wooden handle and the pattern of light shifted on it as it turned. The door began, very gradually, to open. The figure in the doorway was backlit from the light in the hall, and I couldn’t see its face, but I could see that it was a man. A tall man. Slowly and in complete silence, he came into the middle of the room. He was holding a phone in his right hand, and when he got to the middle of the room he lifted it up to his face. For the first time, I could see his eyes. In the reflected light of the phone, they were completely white. There was no pupil and no iris. I ordered myself to stand, but couldn’t. I felt as if there were nothing left of me but a compound of fear and helplessness.