I am not up on all the latest literary theory but I feel that having surivived halfway through the second decade of the twenty-first century I have a unique perspective on philosophy according to one who thinks.
In my thirties I became interested in the work of Michel Foucault, a frenchman who lived a rather extraordinary life. I read a biography of him that revealed to me that he was someone I understood, a man who understood his essential nature and was determined to express himself to the fullest. Foucault is important in philosophy because he showed that society has created the terms by which I label life, and he was quite convincing in his explication of how sin became criminality.
A lot of twentieth century philosophy is just play by the children of Nietsche, demented badboys and girls fracturing the game in the name of individuality, proving the limits of imagination as modeling became parody. Freud gave me the metaphor to rename the old concepts of sin and salvation calling upon instinctual id and superior superego, poor soul, simple ego constantly weighing and measuring trying to work things to my advantage.
Bataille and the surrealists worked the hardest to strip ego from the equation and show how anything and everything is this particular combination, the expression of who and where I am. Bataille is scary because he does not shy away from the dark, the exotic, the id manifesting as the headless one, the unconscious, the dark pool of knowing that Carl Jung tried to hard to find. Eliot showed me through Prufrock that it is possible to survive in the Wasteland, King took me right up the dark tower but I reject his conclusion, his postmodern pseudoliterary eternal cycles ever spinning.
For me it all flows out of the nineteenth century, the derangement of the Romantics, Verlaine, Baudelaire, Whitman. The flowering of the enlightenment found it’s expression among a certain group that aspired to Cosmic Consciousness, that elevated state of awareness that only certain exceptional individuals ever attained, William Blake, John Milton, Beethoven and Bach.
The truth is not that there is no truth about the cosmos but that there is only the truth, the one truth that we all share, that we are all one with, that place within which each of us, alone, unique, distinct, inhabit a moment of awareness and how we fill out that moment, the attitude we exhibit. that we present when we present outselves to the world.
Point of view was fun but it’s time is past, we get so caught up in the whys and wherefores does the narrator say this or that that we quit thinking about the what and why whatever is being said is being said for. Was that awkward? Probably, the thought stumbled to it’s conclusion, English is a good language but it is not the end all and be all of languages, some things have been and can be said better in other tongues. The mystics hypothesized a mystic language that would be the key to all languages, on Star Trek they had a translator, a computer for their ear that translated everything.