Tag: Book Review

Toth and the King in Plato’s Phaedrus

Chris Khatsch1 Comment

There are three main reasons why people read Plato’s Phaedrus: love, rhetoric, and metempsychosis. 

Most, I’d say, read it as an endeavor to uncover the meaning of love, to study the differences between the lover and the beloved, and to compare the non-lover to the lover. Then, there are the literature and philosophy students who are often required to read it while studying rhetoric. And, finally, there are those —like an old Druze friend of mine — who go to it to learn more about Plato’s idea of metempsychosis.

I was a curious (bored) student once, so I’ve naturally read Phaedrus multiple times for the above reasons. But today, as I find myself suffering from a mild hangover, I’m reading Phaedrus for entirely different reasons.

Toth and the King

In the dialogue, there’s this part where Socrates tells Phaedrus a story about Toth, the ancient Egyptian deity with the head of an ibis who, among other things, was the god of writing and knowledge.

After discovering the use of letters, Toth goes to the king of Upper Egypt and says that writing will make people smarter and improve their memories. Writing is the cure of forgetfulness, he says.

But the king responds to him by arguing that the opposite is true. He says that inventors are not always the best judges when it comes to the utility or inutility of their inventions. He argues that writing will create forgetfulness rather than cure it because learners will stop using their memories. Written characters will be used as reminders, not as enhancers of memory. 

What the world will get isn’t wisdom but the pretense of wisdom.

Reading the story of Toth and the king was like riding a magic carpet. It took me to places I’ve been but forgotten, and then it took me to places I’ve never been but wished to forget.

Nursing a glass of ouzo on the rooftop of a 5-star hotel overlooking the Acropolis of Athens, I came to realize that the thoughts the story triggered were worth saving, i.e., remembering. So, as soon as I was back in my room, I recorded them by writing them down.

The plan was to develop them the next day, which is today (December 28, 2023). But “today” can also mean the time I’m editing the work, which is January 3, 2024. It can also mean the day you are reading this. So, let’s forget I used the word “today.”

The important thing is for you to know that I started reading Phaedrus a couple of days before Christmas, and I’ve been drinking heavily since December 24, 2023.

Merry Christmas.

Why We Write

We write something down so that someone (including ourselves) can read it later. Otherwise, why write? This essay — if we can call it an essay — that I’m generating right now, what is its purpose? I can say that I don’t care what happens to it, but whether or not I care if anybody reads it matters very little. Every word we write is meant to be read, even the words we write in our secret diaries.

We read what we wrote to replicate the thought sometime after we’ve first had it. If someone else reads what we wrote, they are also replicating our thoughts. In this case, the thought is duplicated in someone else’s mind. Because the duplicate came to be without the effort that gave birth to the original, it can be said that the duplicate might not be of the same essence as the original. But that doesn’t matter to us right now.

What matters is our first conjecture: We write to replicate a thought.

We can also say that we write to remind or remember.

The Consequences of What We Don’t Read

If every word is written to be read, the following can be said about unread texts: They are waiting to be read.

It is also true that most of the time, texts can only actualize their potential (or serve their intended or unintended purpose) when they are read or processed. However, in some cases, even unread texts can affect the world we live in. Not reading a certain text (within a certain period of time) may initiate a chain of consequences. For instance, an unread email may cause a whole project to fail. 

Acquiring Collective Memory

We read our own notes and journal entries to remember things. 

Letters, essays, business proposals, stories, poems, songs! All of these are molded, structured thoughts. Balance sheets, contracts, medical records, etc. All recorded data is meant to be remembered.

When we read someone else’s words, we are also “remembering.” We are evoking (or recalling) the thoughts the writer has put together. We are transferring foreign thoughts into our brains. 

Reading is one way to acquire collective memory. 

When Person One writes a thought down, and Person Two reads it, the thought is replicated. A new version of Person One’s thought is now in Person Two’s mind. Although, like snowflakes, two thoughts can never be exact matches, the replicated thought can still be considered a duplicate of the original thought. 

Now, let us imagine the work of a historian. If a historian lies about a certain event that cannot be fact-checked, and if this historian’s work is read by millions of people, what happens then? We’ll have a collective memory of something that never happened.

Let us now imagine ourselves in a business setting. The person who prepares the meeting minutes and shares it with everyone via email, what is he doing? He’s mainly synchronizing the memories of those who have attended the meeting. (To remember something outside the bullet points shared is either not to be remembered or unnecessary.) The note taker makes sure that everyone remembers the same things the next time they meet. 

Tech Entrepreneurs Giving Birth to Unicorns

The other day, at work, when we were reviewing a business, one of my colleagues said something about the business and how it had the potential to become a unicorn. The assumption was based on the business founder’s belief and was backed up by the fact that all of his partners had come from other unicorns.  

I responded with the following: “All startups are born to be unicorns, but most of them end up being regular horses.” 

Like Toth, when tech entrepreneurs build something new, they think that whatever they have built will be used for the purpose they have built it for. But that’s not always the case. (Google about technologies and products used for different purposes than originally intended. See how many of them there are.)

The Egyptian king is correct again: Creators are not always right about the things they create. 

Even a mother (who has literally given birth to the person) does not know her own child’s destiny. The child may grow to become anything between a saint and a serial killer. 

Moreover, if the old Egyptian king were here, he would have looked into the entrepreneur’s eyes and said, “A paternal love of your own child has led you to say what is not the fact.” 

Love blinds the lover. 

Seeking the Truth Isn’t Always Worth It, Not Even for Socrates

I’d like to move away from the story of Toth and the king a little bit to tell you why, according to Socrates, seeking the truth isn’t always worth it.

Phaedrus and Socrates are walking together outside the city, looking for a nice place to sit and talk philosophy. At one point, they pass by a place, and Phaedrus asks Socrates whether or not this place is where the story of Orithyia and Boreas takes place. Phaedrus then asks if Socrates believes in this tale. Socrates says that the wise are doubtful about it, so it wouldn’t be surprising if he were doubtful about it, too. But the best part of his answer is what follows. He says that thinking about whether the story is true or not is a waste of time. What does it matter? He concludes by saying that “the common opinion is enough for me.” 

I must summon Zizek here: Acting like you believe in the things your group believes makes you a believer.

Imagine your mother is religious, and you are a talkative atheist. The Christmas dinners have little chance of ending nicely. But imagine now that instead of you giving your unneeded opinion, you make the sign of the cross and thank God for having such a blessed table in front of you. What will happen then? Will your atheism be destroyed? I doubt. But you’ll simultaneously also be a believer. And your family will have a wonderful time.

Be Ready to Hate Yourself after Arguments or Debates 

“That was a dreadful speech you brought with you, and you made me utter one as bad,” Socrates tells Phaedrus. 

How many of us have been in the same situation as Socrates? I find myself in that situation more often than I would like to confess. When I’m at a bar, drinking, for instance. (Oh, man…) And I suddenly start talking politics. The conversation turns into a debate, and the debate turns into an argument.

We all say things we don’t mean to say. So, what must we do when this happens? 

An average person would just call it a night, thinking that “everything will be back to normal tomorrow.” 

But a wise man would act like Socrates. 

After Socrates acknowledges his mistake, he says, “I’m going to make a recantation.” He wants to withdraw what he said and replace it with something new. (Socrates recantation is a purgation: he explains how some get punished and remain so because they aren’t wise enough. Then there are those who are a little wiser. When they are punished, they try to fix it until they go back to their normal state. And yet, there’s him, wiser than the first two: He wants to make a recantation even before he is punished.)

But it’s over now. I’m tired. I’m done writing this. Adios.

The Wretched of the Earth by Franz Fanon Book Review

Personal Notes: Frantz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth

Chris Khatsch1 Comment
  • In the opening of The Wretched of the Earth, Frantz Fanon makes sure that we understand that “decolonization is always a violent event.” To liberate himself, the oppressed man can only succeed by resorting to every means, including violence.
  • Does the colonist “know” the colonized subject? Yes, because the colonist is the one who created (and is always in the process of creating) the colonized subject.
  • Decolonization is the creation of new men who, up until their liberation, were defined by the colonist and were treated as sub-humans. The creation of “new men” is a central aspect of decolonization. To finally be free, the oppressed man must give birth to himself; to liberate himself, he must redefine himself. As long as he is defined by the Other, he is still colonized. A “new man” is a must. If you want to be more like Europe, why fight for your independence from them? Fanon writes, “Humanity expects other things from us than this grotesque and generally obscene emulation.” He wants the Third World to start a new history of man. Accordingly, he concludes the book with the following: “For Europe, for ourselves and for humanity, comrades, we must make a new start, develop a new way of thinking, and endeavor to create a new man.”
  • The colonist will always be afraid of the colonized subject because he simply knows that, when the day comes, he must pay for the suffering he caused. The “dignity” he took away from the colonized subject is a debt that must be paid back in full. In the eyes of the man he colonized, he sees the promise of violence — he sees his demise.
  • The colonized subjects know that they are not, as they are often portrayed, violent animals, but they also know that violence is the only language colonial powers understand. “The colonized man liberates himself in and through violence.”
  • The oppressor (the colonist, or the bourgeois, or the ruling class) always appears to be more civilized. They present themselves as peaceful, non-violent beings. Educated and cultured, they have their savoir-vivre and their etiquettes. But these things are nothing but curtains and masks. They show their true selves as soon as the colonized man’s fingers roll info fists. Even those who remain “neutral” and “objective” are oppressors. As Fanon puts it, “For the colonized subject, objectivity is always directed against him.”
  • “The colonial world is a compartmentalized world.” There’s the oppressor’s part of town, and there’s the part of town that belongs to the oppressed. These “parts,” however, don’t necessarily have to be geographical. The oppressor and the oppressed may live on the same street or work in the same building. But even when they occasionally hug and dance like inseparable friends or lovers, there’s still a line — visible or invisible — that separates them. The colonists feel protected by the law and the police. The colonized subjects don’t.
  • When they rape the wife or kill the child of the colonized subject, nothing happens. When the oppressed man is tortured, he does not complain. He knows that the authorities of oppression will not punish what imitates or reinforces them.
  • Two things that keep order in the colonized world: force and education. The boot and the book. By force we mean the police or the army. By education we mean the teaching of values that “instill in the exploited a mood of submission and inhibition which considerably eases the task of the agents of law and order.”
  • “The colonized man is an envious man.” The oppressed man dreams of taking the place of the oppressor. His dreams are “muscular dreams, dreams of action, dreams of aggressive vitality.”
  • There are no good colonists.
  • “The apotheosis of independence becomes the curse of independence.”
Friedrich Nietzsche Twilight of the Idols Review and Summary and More

On Friedrich Nietzsche’s Twilight of the Idols and Other Things

Chris Khatsch1 Comment

Don’t you know there ain’t no devil, it’s just god when he’s drunk.
– Tom Waits

Nietzsche, the disciple of Dionysos the philosopher

In Twilight of the Idols, or How to Philosophize with a Hammer, Friedrich Nietzsche calls himself “the last disciple of Dionysos the philosopher” and “the teacher of internal recurrence.” And I like this very much.  Here we have Nietzsche defining himself in the final pages of the book that was meant to serve as a short introduction to his other works.

But do I need Nietzsche defined?  No.  All I need is his hammer.

Only two things to note here, two things to keep in mind before… before what?

The first thing is Dionysos.  He is the liberator.  Among other things, he is the god of wine, chaos, madness, and ecstasy.  (As I’ve once described him, he is Jesus in a leather jacket.  That is why Nietzsche remains Christian even after “God is dead.”) When you abandon Christianity, the best you can be is Dionysian – after all, we can argue that a Christian is a tamed Dionysian.  That is why Nietzsche sees himself as the “disciple of Dionysos.” He set himself free from Christianity – or, at least, that’s what he thought.  (Something for me to think about later when I am in a drunken stupor: When a dog is running with wolves, does it matter if it still considers itself a dog?)

The second thing to note here is the concept of eternal recurrence.  You must understand that there’s no free will for you or anyone, and you better be ready to reexperience everything – again, and again, and again! – eternally.  Not only everything is determined, but everything that is happening to you now will happen to you again and again.  (Ask yourself: “Am I making anything happen?”) My long-lost friend, I truly hope you’re enjoying life.  Eh, listen… Don’t try too hard to change yourself.  Nietzsche writes, “The individual, in his antecedents and in his consequences, is a piece of fate, an additional law, an additional necessity for all that now takes place and will take place in the future.  To say to him, “Alter thyself,” is to require everything to alter itself.”

Now a question: What happens if we put Dionysos and eternal recurrence together?  Human history as deterministic chaos on repeat.  But more on this maybe later.

Why am I doing this?

What does it mean to create something that has no place in the world?  After all, it is exactly what I am doing now.  It is what I am spending my freedom on.  If this work, what I am writing, has no place in the world, then does it mean that it is not worth anything?

Nietzsche answers: “The worth of a thing lies sometimes not in what one attains with it, but in what one pays for it, – what it costs us.”

“But what is the non-philosophical reason?” You ask.  And, depending on how intoxicated I am, I answer, “I am doing this – I am writing – because Dionysos has liberated me once more!  I am doing this because I have embraced chaos, and I am free.”

“I’m not satisfied with the answer,” you say.

I force you to have a tequila shot with me.

In the state that I am now, I feel like I understand Nietzsche, although maybe not the way he wished to be understood.  I understand him the way a friend understands a friend.  I recognize him the way a warrior recognizes a warrior.

Scholars have Nietzsche’s philosophies chained.  They have him locked in a sanitized cell.  They have his thoughts organized and placed on beautifully arranged shelves.  They have his words summarized – the summaries are longer than the actual works!  What I see is ground meat, only good for burgers and kebab.  They have preserved the Dionysian in an Apollonian container…

These scholars have studied Nietzsche’s life and works thoroughly.  They have dissected every word he has ever written.  They naively think they achieved something.  But it is precisely because they have studied him so well that they have lost the ability to know him.  Because they put his works under a microscope, they have lost sight of him.

They took his hammer away from him!

Let me tell you.  The doctor who regularly checks your body and reads the results of your blood tests and urine tests does not know you more than the friend you have beers with.  Your friend is the one who experiences the world with you, who shares moments with you, who enjoys your presence. In contrast, your doctor is someone who studies you, someone who sees you as an object.  Sick people go to the doctor.  Doctors can help you extend your life, and they can relieve you from pain, but they cannot help you live a meaningful or triumphant life.  The problem with scholars, therefore, is that they treat philosophies like doctors treat sick people.  And maybe they are the doctors of philosophy and literature.  Who knows?  But even if that’s the case, it means that Nietzsche is still not understood – only the anatomy of his text is.  Beautiful madness isn’t accepted in its true form because it cannot be kept in a jar.  Madness will either rot in the jar or destroy it.  No one ever reads a book “as a friend” … Why not?

I have talked too much…

Ah… Wonderful!  Cold beer flows into my body on a summer morning!  I have drunk Twilight of the Idols!  I have summoned Dionysos and, together, we will set Nietzsche, his disciple, free!

A note to curious readers

I am not an alcoholic.  I don’t usually drink in the morning.  This is only an experiment.  I’m doing this in the name of science… and philosophy.

How to read a book

When we’re reading, we can put on different lenses.  The more theory you know, the more lenses you usually have.  But theory isn’t necessary.

Reading Twilight of the Idols now, I am not interested in the historical value of the book, or how it has already changed the world, or how many copies it has sold.  I don’t even want to know what it’s “really trying to say.” I only want one thing: an enjoyable experience.

I want to play with it.  (“That’s what she said.” – Michael Scott, The Office.)

This isn’t the first time I read this book.  I have written something about Twilight of the Idols before.  I was also drunk.  I have returned to this book just like a man returns to a restaurant he has liked.  This first time is for judgment.  The second time is for what?  This time, although I’m ordering the same appetizers, I’m getting a main course I haven’t tried.

And I’m ordering more beer…

The next thing I want to do is answer the following question: “What does this book mean to me today?” What it meant when people read it years ago is something; what it means to me now is something else.  I want to consume books like I consume wine.  If we taste a full-bodied red wine today – let’s say vintage 2020 –, and then have the same wine seven years later, we will have two separate, unrelated experiences.  Why?  Because the wine has aged.  And the same is with books – they age.

Like wines, a book has its prime.  It is the same with paintings.  Mona Lisa, for instance, was once an impressive piece of art.  It was a great achievement by Leonardo da Vinci.  Today, the only thing that gives it value is its history (and popularity).  But in terms of art, in terms of what art does to someone, the Mona Lisa is no longer art.  If anything, the Mona Lisa is an expired work of art.  It tastes like vinegar.  The Mona Lisa is as impressive as the cave paintings done by early homo sapiens.  Don’t get me wrong, though.  The Mona Lisa still belongs in a museum.  It is and will remain a historical artifact.  Only, it’s no longer a living art. (As a general rule, whatever’s in the museum has, at one point, ceased to be a living art.) Museums – are they not cemeteries?  Necrophilia will always be a thing.

Art has an expiry date, but that’s not the sad part.  The sad part is that some people will only admire the artwork once it’s dead.  “He was a good man,” they always say at funerals.

Anyway, what was I saying?

Twilight of the Idols born out of boredom

Can we say that Nietzsche’s Twilight of the Idols is the product of boredom?  After all, in the preface of his “little work” he says, “This work also – the title betrays it – is above all a recreation, a sun-freckle, a diversion into the idleness of a psychologist.” (Originally, I think, he planned to call this book “The Idle Hours of a Psychologist.”)

And, if this work is, as he puts it, “a grand declaration of warfare,” then we can even ask a second question: Is a thinking mind bound to rebel against the status quo as soon as it finds itself idle… as soon as it finds itself bored?

The first sentence in Twilight of the Idols that comes right after the preface is one of Nietzsche’s “Apothegms and Darts.” Again, idleness is brought up.  He says, “Idleness is the parent of all psychology.  What!  is psychology then a – vice?” Nietzsche is alluding to acedia here, which means “spiritual or mental sloth,” which is one of the seven deadly sins.  Based on this reasoning, we can say that everything that begins with idleness is a vice.  But don’t worry, Nietzsche is just being playful…  

Idleness is always the beginning of something, just like it was the beginning of whatever I’m doing now.

The Nietzsche that you know

“Apothegms and Darts” is the first “chapter” of Twilight of the Idols.  I put “chapter” in quotation marks here because I am not sure if we can really call “Apothegms and Darts” a chapter.  Let us call it a “section” then?  Chapter or not, this is where we find the dictums that are overused – usually on social media and by people who have no idea what they are talking about.  One example is this: “What doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger.” A second example is, “Without music, life would be a mistake.”

But I have other favorites.  The first one is, “I mistrust all systematizers, and avoid them.  The will to system is a lack of rectitude.” The second one is a lighter one, “Only thoughts won by walking are valuable.” And isn’t this true?  That is why I’ll be taking a walk now before I continue writing.  I need new ideas, and the weather is amazing.  Besides, I’m bored.

Socrates is ugly

“The Problem of Socrates” is, in my opinion, a funny chapter.  I always loved how Nietzsche makes fun of Socrates.  I never was interested in finding out who’s righter than the other; overall, however, I think Nietzsche wins.  How he makes fun of Socrates, I’ve written somewhere else, but I’ll quickly mention here that he calls Socrates ugly, and says that Socrates wanted to die, that he compelled Athens to give the poison to him… It’s okay if you don’t laugh, as I’m not trying to be funny right now.  But it’s really funny if you’ve read enough Nietzsche and enough Plato…

Nietzsche opens this chapter by stating that the greatest philosophers seem to have all agreed that life is good for nothing.  But according to him, we cannot say whether life is good for something or good for nothing.  Our judgments and valuations about life can never be true.  He says that we must understand that “the worth of life cannot be estimated.” Why?  Because the very object cannot judge itself.  He says that one must be dead to be able to be able to estimate the value of life – that’s the only way to be outside of life.  But dead people cannot do such things.  (Does this mean we will never fully understand ourselves?)

Something for the reader: As I am writing this, I am not sure if I’ll share the final outcome anywhere.  But I have a feeling that this text will be read.  Therefore, let me make a few things clear.  This isn’t me trying to study Nietzsche.  That is why you may notice that I am not fully tackling the subjects, the idols, that Nietzsche smashes with his hammer throughout the book.  Mainly, these are the idols of Western culture of his time: Christianity, ancient Greek philosophy (Socrates), and the German stuff he cares about.  But I’m here as a friend of the text.  I’m not here to study it or admire it.  This is an informal conversation, and my thoughts and opinions are everywhere.

What is and what seems to be

There is no what is, there is only what seems to be.  The seeming world is the real one; the “true world” is an invention.  The Truth – with a capital “T” – can never be found because it doesn’t exist.  If you ever find the Truth, be sure that someone has invented it for you to find it, or you have invented it by mistake when you were trying hard to find it.  (Remember this: “There are no facts, only interpretations.”) The world that seems to be is the only one that exists, yet it is not only one.  There are many seeming worlds and many ways to see these worlds.

Cover songs can be better than the original ones

It is a big mistake to think that the original, what comes at the beginning (or what comes before something) is better than what comes from it (or what comes after it).

Moreover, As Nietzsche puts it, “The intrinsic depravity of reason” is “confounding consequence with cause.” So, the advice can be induced: Don’t you handcuff cause to effect!

Valuation of Heroes

How do you measure a hero?  The bigger dragons he slays, the more of a hero he is.  Imagine a someone saving a little girl from an ant that was about to pinch her.  Is he a hero?  No.  Now imagine this same man saving the same little girl from a lion that was about to rip her head off and devour her.  Is he a hero?  Yes.  It’s not who you save, it’s what to save them from.  Thus, it’s what the hero kills or faces that he’s measured against.

For someone to become great, more enemies are needed than friends.  That is why, I presume, most people are nobodies – because they don’t have enemies.

Who is your nemesis?

The formula of all religions and moral systems

The base formula of all religions and moral systems, according to Nietzsche, is as follows: Thou shalt [a list of things you should do], and thou shalt not [a list of things you shouldn’t do], so that you are rewarded.  And if you disobey, you will be punished.  And if you don’t get punished in this life, you will be punished in the other life.

After writing this, I realize that this has become common knowledge.  But Nietzsche doesn’t stop here.  He maintains his argument and somewhat concludes that everything good comes from instinct.

At this point, I can confidently say, “My God!  I’m so drunk.”

Eight

Here I am asking myself if we’re still fighting the same idols Nietzsche fought, or if we have new idols to worry about.

The world order is a mask, underneath it there’s a madness grinning – the madness born from the fear of death.

The world – what seems to be – is a lie.  Stitch facts and ideas together and see what you get.  A big lie.  Governments, religions, leadership seminars, ayahuasca sessions, yoga, news, social media, all of them leverage the power of lies, brainwashing, and propaganda.  They need to sell.  So, our bullshit detectors can never rest.

As Nietzsche says, “Neither Manu, nor Plato, nor Confucius, nor the Jewish and Christian teachers, have ever doubted of their right to use falsehood.” And this reminds me of that time – a long, long time ago – when I was reading the republic, and I came across a passage where Socrates says it’s okay for the government to lie to the citizens.

To moralize mankind, you’ll have to use immoral methods.

We’re not tamed animals, Nietzsche, my friend.  We’ve become far worse.  We’ve become pets.

Nietzsche doesn’t like beer

One thing I don’t understand about Nietzsche is his anti-alcohol stance.  He does not like to drink, it seems, not even in moderation.

In Twilight of the Idols, while ranting on about his compatriots, he goes on to complain about German music and beer.  He says things like, “Our constipated, constipating German music.” And “How much beer is in German intelligence!” Then acts like he doesn’t understand why intelligent people drink.

Now, I’m not German, but I do like German beer.  As for German music, I do enjoy Rammstein occasionally, but this band was formed at least 100 years after Nietzsche went mad.

Jokes aside, the answer to “Why do intelligent people drink?” was always clear to me.  And I do not believe I need to explain any further now…  

Nietzsche on Darwin

“Survival of the fittest” isn’t always the case.  “Darwin forgot the intellect,” Nietzsche writes.  Maybe because only human beings possess intellect, and Darwin never studied human beings.  I wouldn’t know.

With intellect comes patience, long-term planning, self-control, slyness, and a lot of other things.  The list is long and boring.

According to Nietzsche, one loses brainpower when it’s no longer needed.  That means, the stronger you are, the stupider you become.  (Hm, is that why there are few – if any – intellectuals with six packs?)

What is happening to my brain?  This last tequila shot was a killer.

Correction: It wasn’t tequila; it was Chacha from Georgia.

  “The weak again and again get the upper hand of the strong,” Nietzsche writes, but I disagree… Lol. Those who thrive in the world today are those who are neither strong nor smart.  It is those who are blessed by ignorance.  Truly, ignorance is bliss, we must conclude.  The happiest and most successful people are blessed with ignorance.  They are the entrepreneurs and influencers, who are always barely mediocre, but have the gift to portray themselves much more than who they are.

What is – who cares?  What seems to be is all that matters.

(Note: Not all idiots are happy and successful. It’s not a guarantee.)

“The general aspect of life is not a state of want or hunger; it is rather a state of opulence, luxuriance, and even absurd prodigality, – where there is a struggle, it is a struggle for power.” All of you – social media addicts and daily consumers of content – are in this group.  Your needs are met.  You are products of boredom.  It is wealth you’re after.  What you want is luxury and reputation.  What you want is power.

Is Plato winning?

“Plato is a coward in presence of reality, – consequently, he takes refuge in the ideal.” And what is the internet today – more specifically, what is social media?  It is an attempt to create the ideal.  What? The theory of forms.  Human beings are working hard to create a universe, an ideal universe that they can control, a universe that has nothing to do with spacetime, a virtual universe so real that it will make you forget the real world…

What?

Beep-beep. Get out of my way.

What seems to be.

Clearly, the meaning of life isn’t in Nietzsche’s Twilight of the Idols, nor is it in any other book.  The meaning of life is something we came up with one day.  I don’t know why.

Georgian Chacha.

The First Mistake: The Sin of Adam and Eve

The unforgivable mistake of every man is taking life too seriously. This unforgivable mistake is also the first big sin. When Adam bit the apple, humans started taking life too seriously, and that was the end of paradise.

Why I am anti-academia

What can a university teach about critical thinking?  It can inform enrolled students that such a thing as “critical thinking” exists, but it cannot teach them critical thinking.

Schools and universities were built to raise a working-class that could handle machinery and wear clean underwear.  (In Nietzsche’s time, they taught man duty and leveraged his sense of duty to make him a machine.) I observe the world: people with dreams working bullshit jobs, following career paths.  “Careers!” Nothing more laughable than a career.

Universities claim that they teach you how to think critically.  Think critically?  How?  By professors that have spent their lives on campus, professors that have all read the same books and wrote the same reviews, professors that teach you how to think outside the box… What’s outside the box has become so redundant and familiar.  Oh, man!  All this time, and we still don’t know what’s inside that box… Open the box already!

How is one’s mind free if it’s not at least mildly inebriated?  To write an essay, you must be sober.  You must follow a structure and use formal language.  Why?  (ChatGPT can take care of that now.)

We need to set ourselves free from the Apollonian (Goodbye, structure!), and we need to embrace the Dionysian (Hello, chaos!) to become fully human once more.  And this is why I drink.  In moderation.

I drink in moderation.