Back in school, my favorite class was philosophy. My interest began in high school with Lou Hayner’s introduction to the Greeks — Plato, Socrates, Aristotle — and continued though college with Kant, Schopenhauer and Nietzsche.
Philosophy taught me how to think; it opened a previously closed window on the universe, one that allowed me to consider (in the words of Douglas Adams) the great questions of life, the universe and everything. What it did not teach me was how to make a buck.
Philosophy, I learned after dropping about $20,000 in tuition money, is the college major of people who fully expect to a) inherit their daddy’s millions, b) marry a rich widow, or c) live in their mother’s basement glued to a PlayStation for the rest of their lives.
As (bad) luck would have it, my old man managed to spend all his money before he died, there’s a shortage of rich widows in this town and even were my mom still alive, I’d feel guilty moving into her basement.
It’s said that Socrates’ wife took in laundry to support his lazy butt while the great thinker himself spent his afternoons hanging around the Parthenon drinking wine and extolling the merits of appointing a philosopher king to govern the nation. The fact Socrates was the world’s preeminent philosopher at the time may have swayed his thinking somewhat in this regard; we’ll never know for sure.
The point is, Mrs. Socrates is the one who put fish on the table. Even back then, when philosophers were the rock stars of their day, nobody was willing to pay them for their skills. Nobody ever said, “Hey Aristotle! I’ll give you 30 drachma if you can explain the cosmos to me in 200 words or less” or “Here’s a goat, Plato, now tell me why I’m here.”
Sure, the Sophists charged for their lessons, but they were considered by most to be second rate philosophers at best.
This dissing of philosophers — even non-Sophists — has continued through the centuries into modern times. Pick up any newspapers’ help wanted section. Nurses, busboys, truck drivers, website developers and — on rare occasions — even writers; they’re all in demand. But philosophers? Never.
Never once have I seen a classified ad that reads: “Wanted, philosopher. Must be familiar with both Western and Eastern philosophies with a minor in the Germanic thinkers. Duties include determining what is “real” from what only seems real, explaining the nature of the world and humanity’s place in it, and producing Power Point presentations. Knowledge of the infinite universe a plus, unless you are able to prove conclusively that the universe does not really exist, in which case you can take Fridays off. Pay commensurate with experience.”
That’s a job I could handle! Granted, I don’t really remember much about the Germanic “thinkers,” but I’m sure I could bluff my way past that by throwing out a few well-chosen names (see the above referenced Kant, Schopenhauer and Nietzsche). As to the Power Point stuff, I could farm that out to some kid in the Philippines willing to work for two bucks an hour.
Sigh. It would be nice. Granted, I’m not really smart enough to be a full time philosopher, but I do have a genuine talent for slinging the bull. That sometimes confuses folks long enough that they don’t notice I’m spouting nonsense until after I’ve left the room, at which point it’s too late to retort. This skill, I believe, is at least half of what it takes to be a successful philosopher. The other half I could fake, for a price.
A lot of these Reality Check columns have a point, but not this one. Philosophers don’t need points, they don’t sum things up; they just sit around and think.
So next time you see me out on the lake in the middle of a workday, remember: though it may look like I’m fishing, I’m really philosophizing. Hard.
With a beer.
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