The word “philosophy” carries a lot of baggage for me, even now, decades after my first real exposure to the subject in the form of a high school class called, “Concepts in Philosophy” — a class I loved despite feeling lost half the time. Centered on an encyclopedia set called Great Books of the Western World, the class only cemented in my mind that philosophy was the domain of long-dead historical figures and had as little relevance to my day-to-day life as steam trains and butter churns.
As you might expect, my parents were the source of my negative attitude, especially my mom, who disapproved of my choice of “Concepts in Philosophy” as an elective. She wanted me to take typing or Home Economics, something practical. Being called “impractical” was a cutting insult in my family.
When I received an award from my philosophy teacher at the end of the year, my parents’ lukewarm approval was undercut by the glaring typo on the trophy, which unfortunately memorialized my achievement in “Concepts in Phioosophy.” I’m sure they were thinking what’s the point of being an egghead if you can’t even spell?
In college, I had friends who were inclined toward philosophical discussions, but I can’t recall anyone taking a class in philosophy, much less majoring in it. After all, the point of an education was to get a job that paid well. My parents said so. It never occurred to me to question that assumption or to even notice it was an assumption. My classmates were on the same path I was supposed to be on—toward a lucrative career.
And even when my path began to meander as I miserably switched from one major I was poorly suited for to another, I still took it for granted that college was just an expensive training school I needed to complete before entering the world of work.
I say all this to explain why philosophy was never on the menu for me as a field of serious study and why I didn’t rediscover my interest in the subject until at least 15 years after I had graduated—with a degree in English. (You can imagine how my parents felt about that!)
And yet, even now I recognize that the fruit hasn’t fallen far from the tree of practicality. If I can’t apply something directly to my life, I’m generally not interested. Esoteric academic discussions about this or that rarefied subject bores me to tears. I’ve tried to expose myself to more highbrow philosophical concepts but with very little success. I can’t tell you how many philosophy videos on YouTube I’ve watched only to discover I had stopped listening halfway through.
Recently I encountered this quote in Ryan Holiday’s The Daily Stoic for August 14th:
“Philosophy isn’t a parlor trick or made for show. It’s not concerned with words, but with facts. It’s not employed for some pleasure before the day is spent, or to relieve the uneasiness of our leisure. It shapes and builds up the soul, it gives order to life, guides action, shows what should and shouldn’t be done—it sits at the rudder steering our course as we vacillate in uncertainties. Without it, no one can live without fear or free from care. Countless things happen every hour that require advice, and such advice is to be sought out in philosophy.”
— Seneca, Moral Letters, 16.3
And yeah, this passage struck a chord with me.
I find the phrase “steering the course as we vacillate in uncertainties” to be especially comforting. I operate with low-level anxiety humming in the background of my life, and I am congenitally a worrier. If philosophy can reduce that anxiety, make me feel more confident in my abilities to cope, then sign me up!
And who wouldn’t want to “build up the soul”? I take that to mean “build character,” which is a common phrasing worthy of some consideration, because it strikes me as meaning two different things—something both spiritual and ethical, i.e., becoming a better person as a moral actor, but also becoming more resilient in the face of life’s ups and downs.
To put it simply, I’m interested in philosophy as a way to improve myself and the quality of my life. That’s not to say that I think I’m a terrible person or my life is shit (far from that). I’m generally content with who I am, and I’ve been very fortunate in my circumstances, but there’s always room from improvement, isn’t there?
Rereading that passage from Seneca, the part about “it gives order to life” stands out to me. I’d like to be comfortable with messiness and uncertainty, muddles and confusion, even meaninglessness, but I’m not. I admire people—real intellectuals, in my opinion—who can embrace worldviews like postmodernism and its skepticism of larger truths. I can’t do it.
Like most people, I crave order and meaning and a coherent narrative. Am I looking for a religion rather than a philosophy? Maybe.
And maybe the idea of shopping for a worldview, which is what I feel I’m doing and which assumes that there is more than one valid narrative out there, reveals that I absorbed more postmodernist ideas in my university literature classes than I thought.
Bottom line: I guess there’s philosophy and there’s self-help philosophy, and I’m more in the self-help camp. I admire those who read difficult books and can debate arcane ideas on The Philosophy Forum or on Reddit. I’m just not one of them.
In this realm, I’ll likely never be more than yet another dilettante, and I’m okay with that. At this point in my life I’m ready to embrace all my interests: history, philosophy, psychology, literature, and religion. Now that retirement is on the horizon, I can safely put aside my inherited and ingrained anxiety about supporting myself financially and let my impractical side loose.
Finally.
The Swansonian 