Contingency, Solidarity—Irony: For Richard Rorty

A shock of white hairA distinctive grasp of the podiumIn two hands—held tight to control the flow of ideas.Held tight—to withstand the force of the audience.Whether resisting the praise, too easily givenOr responding to the criticism raisedBy those who whisper "He used to be one of us."

Here we find—in the grasping of a podium—Contingency, solidarity—and even irony.That just this device of meeting face onThose whose faces are rigidly set directly toward his own,Bring irony, contingency—and solidarity? Perhaps.

The moment is contingent—as every moment is—Contingent that he is here at all—Contingent in that rolling laconic speech—But the greatest contingency for the philosopher is"The accidental coincidence of a private obsession with a publicneed."*A great contingency—yes. One that ripples throughAll the other contingencies of his life.

Contingency, irony, and solidarity—Irony now in its middle place—Pretending to be the mediating figure.But only possible at the end of thoughtA defense against contingency—now darkened with a knowing smile.A resistance against solidarity—now swelling to the point ofsuffocationOn the cream of easy agreement.Now withdrawn—chilling to the point of a new kind of suffocation,As air is deliberately sucked away.

Where do we find our philosopher on this tripod?Why, watching birds alongside quiet reading.His very aloofness an affront to solidarity—An occasion for irony—And never failing in its contingency—Such quiet reserve holding contingency and solidarity fastWhile irony can only focus on those fixed hands,Letting its small laugh slide over the paper still on the podium.