Philosophy: Several Incarnations

A Real Philosopher

My father was a professor of philosophy at a tiny Kansas college. From time to time old classmates would stop by on their way to more illustrious places. The visits with these cod-faced men always proceeded in the same way: dinner would begin with recollections of graduate life, and by my bedtime the discussion moved to the back porch, where some phenomenological controversy would be resolved with hand-rolled cigarettes and shouting in German. The next day my father was always in good spirits, and would say of our departed guest, "He's a real philosopher," which I took to be the more refined way of saying, "He's a real jerk."

I was impressed that Back East a man could live so well by being a jerk, and I resolved that when I grew up I too would be a jerk.

Moral Luck

It is well known that Kansas high schools conduct Driver's Education classes in the summer months. At a local school, the instructor was an alumnus of Kansas State and an unusually devoted fan of the Wildcats, which led others to remark that he bled purple. This instructor had developed the peculiar ability to whistle "Wildcat Victory" using only his teeth, although the trick required him to nod up and down like a bridled horse. Over the summer he decided to add "Wabash Cannonball" to his repertoire by practicing while supervising student drivers.

The instructor was in the passenger seat when one such driver, of the Church of the Nazarene and an exemplar of their well-known meekness, brought the car to a stop at the meeting of two so-called section roads. Being unsure of the proper way to proceed, the young man turned to the instructor for guidance. The student mistook the instructor's rehearsal for a signal to drive forward and, July being the time for the winter wheat harvest, the car was instantly crumpled by a grain truck. A certain observer, esteemed for his reliability, was riding in the back seat, and averred that the instructor — who was killed on the spot — really did bleed purple.

The locals suggest that this phenomenon owes to an interaction between clean grain and certain iron-containing compounds, though they have not greatly troubled themselves over the matter.

A Philosophical Dispute

I fell into conversation with a fellow student about the character of objects. I defended the strict Deleuzian position, maintaining that all objects were really infinitely permutable machines, grouped into assemblages. My opponent, while not clinging to the naive belief that objects have fixed essences, countered that objects were sufficiently determined by historical conditions that he could look upon an object and discern its utile properties.

The argument went back and forth until we had smoked away the last of our cigarettes and had opened our final cans of beer. I stood and pulled from my pocket a certain object, and asked my foe to identify it. He said, "Under capitalism, you are holding a boxcutter." I clicked the blade out leisurely and made sure to show him the thing up close. I said, "No, it is a make-you-give-me-all-the-money-in-your-wallet-or-else-cut-your-face machine."

And that's how I earned twelve dollars for my contributions to philosophy.

Something about Being

One day as I was walking around my apartment I found myself confronting Being (Da-sein). This was an alarming situation: philosophers say that if we turn our back on Being it becomes the Abyss (das Nichts). When we turn away from Being we are dragged assward noiselessly into the Abyss, a condition I would obviously seek to avoid while performing household chores. I tested this proposition. I slowly turned away from Being, all the while regarding it from the corner of my eye. When Being reached the farthest, blurred penumbra of my vision I discerned a change in it, Being became altogether darker. As I turned my back entirely, I felt a pull on my shirt, and I was dragged backward. I turned once again to face Being. I was in...