Catherine Pickstock asking for a cup of tea: 'The optimum receptaclised transcendental infusion of enchauffed camellia sinensis with a modicum of bovine lactational excretion...please.'
There are three reasons why philosophy might be difficult to read:
1. It is so unfathomably deep that ordinary mortals are not able to understand it.
2. The author has deliberately couched it in language that only fellow professional academics will be able to comprehend.
3. The author is a bad writer.
It's not always easy to tell, in any given case, which of the three it is. The author may like to think it is (1); readers, wary of being condescended to, will suspect it is (2). I'm only just beginning this, but I am satisfied that in this case the reason is (3) - Pickstock is just a bad writer. I know this because she can't even do something as straightforward as outlining the plot of a Platonic dialogue without producing sentences such as:
'...he reads aloud the script of a speech by Lysias which advocates a contractualizng of erotic partnerships for the avoidance of the difficulties - especially the transience - usually experienced in conventional relationships'.
It would be hard to get further away from Plato's lucid, down-to-earth style, or any sort of good English, than this. It's not that we don't know the words individually - it's not that we don't understand the way they are put together - it's simply that they are *not quite right*. By way of comparison, Wikipedia - hardly a paragon of good prose style - says of the speech in question that it 'explains all the reasons why it is better to give your favour to a non-lover rather than a true lover'. Ah, I see! Pickstock, I'm afraid, is one of those people who has become so habituated to thinking and writing academic-ese, twisting nouns and adjectives into ad hoc verbs, or the reverse, using phrases that are both grandiloquent and vague, unnecessarily convoluted constructions, specialised jargon terms, superfluous sub-clauses, bizarre circumlocutions, polysyllabilization*, and generally writing as if the reader already knows what she wants to say, that she is probably unable to do any different. What to the ordinary reader is a grotesque distortion of language is, in her world, usual - not natural, to be sure, but 'second nature'. Nobody could read a long book of such stuff without superhuman determination. And it suggests a contempt for normal people and normal lives that is no less off-putting because it may be unconscious: ivory-tower academia at its worst. It is probably the only book of the last hundred years to use the term 'hoi polloi' without any appearance of irony.
The irony though is that most readers will very much *not* already know what she is trying to say. Whilst the ingenuous arrogance of her opening claim to 'surpass and complete' philosophy (the first of a number of rather cocky claims throughout the book) must provoke either smiles or irritation, this is without doubt a highly original and profound work about the central place of liturgy - public religious worship - in a harmonious society. As you read, flashes of brilliance come regularly through the heavy clouds of verbiage. It really is a shame that the author was not more capable of putting it in a form that would have allowed its ideas to disseminate more readily. I doubt it's any accident that even those who commend it tend to focus on the bit about Phaedrus and Derrida - if they were honest, that is probably as far as they got! And I don't know whether I will get much further myself. But I'll try.
PS Here's a good one: 'visible voted-in apexes'. I think that means 'elected governments'.
PPS I'm not convinced that this school really understands Kant, whom they seem content to paint as a philosophical pantomime villain.
*Polysyllabilization: I made that one up, like it? I think Pickstock would be proud. I mean by it the unnecessary addition of extra syllables to a word to make it more grandiloquent. A common example is 'transportation' rather than 'transport'; one from the book is 'proprietous' rather than 'proper'.