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451 pages, Kindle Edition
Published October 3, 2023
I have (so far) led a remarkably adventurous and fulfilling life, way beyond the most extravagant fantasies of my youth—and I was a cocksure young man with vaulting ambition. How did it happen? Was it all just luck, or “connections,” or may I claim some credit for getting myself into my current happy state? Do I in any sense deserve the benefits I now enjoy?
...My main destination was Rome, where, thanks to an Exeter faculty wife, Nina Fish, I had arranged to work in the sculpture studio of Pietro Consagra, recent winner of the Venice Biennale prize, whose wife was Nina’s sister... A recent googling of “ancient Roman bronze” showed me some photos of pieces I daresay we made; they’re still pretty cheap.
She saw a new sculpture of mine in a rather different style and medium than I had been working in, and she asked the gallery owner who the sculptor was. “Oh, that’s a new work by a very exciting young Italian sculptor, Danielo Dennetti.” This is a main reason I am not heavily involved in the art world now. I love the company of artists, but I can’t stand gallery owners, art critics, or—sad to say—many of the people who can afford to buy original art. Selling a piece to them often seemed to me like a betrayal—like giving them a child of mine. I did have a show of my “haptic whittles” in the Underdonk Gallery in Brooklyn in 2017, but none of the pieces were for sale.
Some years later, when we were both Harvard students, we ran into each other in Paris in the summer and went to Le Chat Qui Pêche, where Chet Baker and his band were playing. I stayed until after midnight, when Ron egged me on to ask to sit in. This was granted, and I giddily did perhaps ten choruses of blues in F with these immortals and returned, flushed, to our table. Then Ron got up and began playing, and they really paid attention. I left after one o’clock in the morning with Ron still sitting in, and he showed up at my Left Bank hotel while I was having a late breakfast at about ten the next day. When I remarked that he was up early, he said he was just then getting back from
the jam session. He was brilliant but insecure, and sadly a few years later he committed suicide. I never found out the details.
Many people are eager to protect “real magic” in one way or another, and many of them find philosophy to be the ideal profession for this campaign. I’d say it is the distinguishing characteristic of one kind of philosopher. But then there are the antiphilosophers, who look at the mess made by the others and say to themselves, “Fie! I’m going to try to clear this all up!” My guides and heroes have been the folks—scientists and philosophers—who have hunches about how the tricks are done, how the illusions are generated. They are not just skeptics and debunkers but
constructive explainers, groping for models or theories to replace the armchair verities of the philosophers with testable ideas...
I’m a pack rat, a magpie—to slices of what strike me as the most exciting or thought provoking tidbits and leaving the rest of the interpretation to the scholars. I think I have learned a lot from Husserl, but some distinguished Husserl scholars think my reading is irreparably ill-informed. I don’t care. I turned to Husserl to figure out how the mind works and got some valuable help from that reading; if Husserl himself would be aghast at my construal, too bad for Husserl. I am happy to give him credit, but if Husserlians want to reject my gift, they are welcome to do so. I’m not going to spend days or weeks wrangling over hermeneutics.
I read Chomsky’s famous review of Skinner’s Verbal Behavior, which had just appeared, but —unlike most budding cognitive scientists—I also read Skinner’s book, and I decided that Chomsky’s review was a masterpiece of misleading polemics. That was my earliest encounter with deliberate caricature in academia, and it was an eye-opener.
The physicist Wolfgang Pauli famously dismissed another physicist’s ideas as “not even wrong,” and I have opportunistically tried to fix some of the wrong ideas presented by physicist Roger Penrose, linguist Noam Chomsky, neuroscientist Christof Koch, and evolutionary biologists Stephen Jay Gould and David Sloan Wilson, among others. Then there were my long-standing battles with my fellow philosophers Thomas Nagel, Jerry Fodor, John Searle, and David Chalmers. Where would I be without all these brilliant mistakes to correct, with the help of my thinking tools?
as Gilbert Ryle, my thesis supervisor at Oxford, told a colleague of mine over a few beers in Salzburg back in the ’60s, “There are much cleverer chaps than Dennett, but he has a fire in his belly.” I’ve gratefully leaned on that crutch now for more than half a century.
One mathematician who vigorously participated (I forget his name, alas) was enticed into reading Quine’s Word and Object, and asked me at lunch one day why it was that whenever Quine got into real metaphysical issues he “cracked wise,” jocularly evading the problems. It had never occurred to me that Quine did this, but I was soon persuaded that the fellow was right. I ventured a diagnosis: Quine started out as a mathematical logician and had never been quite sure that philosophy was a
proper career for a grown-up; it was his residual discomfort with the field he was in that explained his arm’s-length approach to metaphysics. Years later, I told Quine this story, and he readily confirmed my diagnosis: Quine was a philosopher malgré lui. Me too, I thought.