Welcome to another edition of the world’s recently
reinvigorated foremost source of text-based misery. Here, at the outset of the
second edition of the second incarnation, I’d like to mention some interesting
facts about Existentialists. Soren Kierkegaard once went on record as being
deeply in favor of repetition, and extended his approval and endorsement even
to others who willed repetition. All of which is to say, if you came here
hoping against hope that last week was a painful reminder of the bad ol’ days,
but that the sun had dawned anew, you have only The Existentialists to blame
for this vicious repetition of The Saturday Address. It is their view that you should enjoy, nay, that you should will this.
Not that The Existentialists will mind very much if you blame them. For one thing, they’ve always seemed to have more enthusiasm for misery, despair, and hopelessness than a rock band of suburban teenagers, so they’d probably appreciate the compliment, and for another thing, they’re all dead.
Not that The Existentialists will mind very much if you blame them. For one thing, they’ve always seemed to have more enthusiasm for misery, despair, and hopelessness than a rock band of suburban teenagers, so they’d probably appreciate the compliment, and for another thing, they’re all dead.
And actually, just presently, both things make a lot of
sense to me when I consider the fact that The Existentialists were, as near as
I can figure (having only a rough knowledge of them, their work, and
biographies) involved in academia for most of their lives. It is no surprise to
me—embroiled as I am in the dreadful second quarter of a semester—that this
made their outlook somewhat dim.
Anyway, I was all set to unleash another piece about my present ills, one that was going to center on another way in which the necessary conditions of doing my job have rendered me unfit for life, and ill-suited for academic endeavor, but the truth is, I have not yet achieved a Kierkegaardian enthusiasm for repetition, and just can’t bring myself to put the needle back down in that particular groove.
Instead, I’d prefer to talk about elephants.
Here is the thing. Here are two things, in fact. First thing: I don’t know almost anything about elephants.
Second thing, giraffes, not elephants, are the
rulers of the Saturday Address jungle, and we are great respecters of
tradition.
So I’m not going to talk a) about other unfortunate bits of
my development which render life difficult and miserable, or b) about
elephants.
What is left?
This is actually a pretty good question. What is left?
According to Dictionary.com, it is “of, pertaining to, or
located on or near the side of a person or thing that is turned toward the west
when the subject is facing north.”
That is to say, there is no context-independent definition of
left. Left is a word which carries no meaning by itself. To understand that
something is left, we must know what object it is to the side of, and which
side of the orienting object we are viewing the scene from. Because after all,
if we were on the other side of the object, that which is on the left, would be
on the right.This is not, of course, to say that left is arbitrary. It isn’t, at all, but it
is extremely context-sensitive.
This context sensitivity of left illustrates several important points, but because my
wife is waiting on me to finish this so that we can leave for Cincinnati, I
will restrict myself to the most important principle we can gather from this
brief discussion of relative directions.
Always remember, friends, outside of an orienting context,
we cannot tell who, or what is right. And without something being right…
…there is nothing left.
Have a good week.
