So my wife dragged me to a packed bookstore last night to see David Sedaris, who is mighty funny. As I was waiting for my wife to get her book signed (took exactly 2 hours because Sedaris likes to yuck it up), I roamed the bookstore. I read every title in the poetry section, the terribly paltry nature / garden section, Nebraska and Nebraska Press sections, University of Nebraska faculty section, and the philosophy section.
The philosophy titles interested me immensely--at first. There's a trend in relating philosophy to the masses via pop culture: chat rooms, dating websites, Battlestar Gallactica, philosophy for dummies. Some of the titles, which I can't remember, sounded too deep / mercurial for me. Then I starting thinking not deep, self involved. Then not self involved, just sorrowful. I felt pity for the authors. All that time invested in what really amounts to nothing--circular words and arguments based on smoke and mirrors. Is all writing ultimately like this?
I think philosophy and, in general, "philosophizing" is fun and interesting, but it creates a very, very small world indeed--one that is exclusionary of experience in my opinion. And in many ways, I've just finished 9 years of a life that was this, but maybe it set me up to not live anything like that kind of life ever again. But I cheered up a bit when I hit the title on the bookshelf that read "On Bullshit." A small, thin book, and based on my flipping through its pages, discusses dictionary definitions and real wold manifestations of BS.
And I realized that, being self effacing but not really self effacing in a self effacing way, it was BS, too.
So I bought a 50% off garden book which seems to hold far more philosophy in one page than all that other BS. Which made me sad. Is all language just a form of BS?
So I started thinking about starting my own business--making change purses. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized there's just not that much money in them.