Philosophy at a Gallop
Every summer I try and make a point of launching into a Big Fat Philosophy Book that I have, for some reason or another, not got round to reading before. My ideal holiday reading, in other words, is not a thriller or an airport blockbuster, but instead is something appetisingly dense like Merleau-Ponty’s The Phenomenology of Perception. Merleau-Ponty is my choice for this summer, because this is a book that I have made use of, talked about and skirted round for years, but one that I have not actually ever read from beginning to end.
Big Fat Philosophy Books are always rather daunting things. One of the reasons I like reading philosophy is not that I turn page after page thinking, “Hmmm… that makes sense,” but instead that I turn the pages thinking, “What the hell’s going on?”, whilst being aware — somewhere just on the threshold of perception — that my insides are being subtly realigned. And one of the things I have come to appreciate is that reading philosophy is, in part, a way of making friends with bafflement, non-comprehension and bewilderment; it is a way of seeing that these things, too, are a part of what it means to think.
Every time I launch into a Big Fat Philosophy Book, I am reminded of the sage advice of the philosopher Franz Rosenzweig, who has a lot of interesting things to say on reading and on thinking. Rosenzweig claims, in his essay The New Thinking, that when we read philosophy, we often make the mistake of thinking that what we are reading is “especially logical”, that ideas follow each other in neat chains of reasoning, and that each sentence leads on to the next. But then he says, “Nowhere is this less the case than in philosophical books.” Often, in fact, the sentences that follow make sense of the sentences that have come before. Or when you close the book, suddenly you get a sense of what was going on at the opening. Philosophy books, in other words, are often complex systems of thought that do not unfold proposition by proposition, but that require instead a kind of wholehearted engagement, a passage through them, before they begin to make sense.
How, then, to read philosophy? Rosenzweig’s answer is clear: Napoleonically. You launch in, at at gallop, “in a bold attack on the enemy’s central force”, in the hope that the smaller fortresses will fall once the decisive battle has been won. Of course, you don’t know at what point this battle will take place: and, Rosenzweig notes, it will surely not be in the same place for two different readers. But the important thing is this: “Above all: rush! Do not stop!” The worst that can happen is that you end out galloping out the other side, none the wiser; but usually, by the end, something has happened.
So this is how I will be reading Merleau-Ponty this summer. I’ll be putting on my Napoleonic bicorne hat of firm resolve, saddling up the horses of philosophical hunger, and launching an offensive on the citadels of Merleau-Ponty. I’d say “Wish me luck!”; but I won’t, because I bet Napoleon never said “Wish me luck!” before he galloped off on his latest campaign. He probably just said, “Adieu,” set his jaw nobly towards the horizon, and galloped off…
Oof. I was going to wish you luck until I read the last paragraph… I think read most of that book, but definitely not at a gallop. The only bit I can actually remember is the discussion of the brain-damaged guy Schneider. Maybe that’s the consequence of pulling different bits out over several years.
On the other hand… While I’d agree that it’s important to try to get the entirety of a Big Philosophy Book in your head at once (which I failed to do with Merleau-Ponty), I’m not convinced that the cavalry charge is the best way approach. Since, indeed, the end often makes sense of the beginning, that’s sometimes a better place to start. Or at least one might read the end before the middle. And so forth.
A military campaign requires tactics, in other words… Let us not forget what happened to Napoleon in Russia!
Too true: Russia is the obvious flaw in my argument…
The metaphor breaks down, in part, because you don’t re-fight campaigns, but you do re-read books. So the gallop is only one strategy amongst many, and they are not mutually exclusive. Perhaps there is an optimum speed for each book: walk, trot, canter, gallop… But for many books an initial gallop can be useful, I think. A backwards-walk, as you say, can also make sense — but you need to watch out for lamp-posts.
To switch metaphors, sometimes I think of a first read-through as taking an aerial photograph before actually going into the territory on foot. Do you know “How to Talk about Books you Haven’t Read” by Pierre Bayard? — it’s full of interesting insights into how we actually relate to books, rather than how we (meaning academics, in this context) pretend to relate to books.
Yes, I do know “How to Talk about Books you Haven’t Read.” I haven’t actually read it, but I think I could fake it based on the reviews I’ve read!
The “invisible comment” issue I mentioned in email has resolved itself. Probably a caching issue, as you suggest.
Best wishes
As a current reader of The Phenomenology of Perception (I’m into the last 100 pages and yes, it does make substantially more sense than when I started), I feel it my duty to pass on an important piece of advice.
The biggest problem with TPoP (as the kids call it) is that it is approximately the same size and shape as 50SoG (you know the dreck I mean). For this reason, when reading on the bus, I suggest a contemplative pose that lifts the book off the knee so that the cover is displayed to anyone who happens to glance in your direction, thus avoiding the need to shout “It’s not p__n, it’s Merleau-Ponty!” before alighting at one’s stop.
Ah, Bryonny, what would I do without you to tell me what the kids are saying these days? Your advice is welcome: I’m quite good at contemplative poses, actually (true contemplation is harder to achieve…)
As a current reader of Fifty Shades of Grey (I’m into the last 100 pages and yes, I’m starting to understand why it is the fastest-selling book of all time), I feel it my duty to pass on an opposite piece of advice.
When reading TPoP, I recommend swapping the covers with a copy of Fifty Shades. If someone sees you reading TPoP on the bus and tries to talk you up, it is probably because they are a crackpot amateur philosopher who wants to bore you with their theory of “Meaningness” or something. If someone sees you reading 50SoG and tries to talk, it is probably because they hope you will tie them up and do something dreadful and delicious to them—or vice versa.
Presented with choices, I generally recommend the unusual and uncomfortable.
(But maybe that recommendation belies the reality that mostly I stay at home with my samphire soup and an philosophical or anthropological monograph.)