Examined Life

I understand we’re all a bit sceptical that a film that gives 10 minutes to 8 representatives will have anything profound to say about the public face of philosophy. I don’t think that being profundity is the goal, though, because the film itself is a glossy, stylized walk through various settings—we feel like we’re just passing these people on the street or having a conversation with them at a party. It seems somehow fitting since it’s interspersed with shots of random people living their lives, about whom I couldn’t help but make assumptions (based on dress, demeanour, what-have-you). We have very little information about other people, but we feel we can somehow imagine they are or aren’t examining their lives. I’m not quite sure what it means to examine one’s life, if it’s an activity or a mode, but I think it is something along the line of living deliberately, making sure that you are aware of your own motivations and, as much as you can, the consequences of your actions.

The movie is about philosophy, but my work is literature and film. Yes, they’re all part of a greater humanities and I’m a fan of intersdisciplinary studies, but I want to think specifically about what it means to read texts. It’s fun to look at meter and rhyme in poetry and stylistic devices and description in prose, but what are we really getting at when we make claims about texts? We can recall the internet video I’m sure we’ve all watched about the naive student who has “important things to say about death in literature.” What about death in the world? How do we separate the incredible specificity of our work in textual analysis with philosophical claims? I like writing about semicolons in Elizabeth Bowen; how do I make that relevant not only to the public but to an examination of my own life? I was having a conversation with someone working on a presentation who said he didn’t want to overinterpret the text. I didn’t really get what “overinterpret” means so we thought about it together for a while and preliminarily concluded that we didn’t want to impose too much of ourselves onto it, or what we wish the text was saying, or what fits our own worldview. I’ve been thinking about this problem more, thanks to the Colloquium and the general emphasis on “big stakes” at U of A that I didn’t have at my previous university. In good Socratic fashion: What does it mean to interpret literature? What does it mean to tell stories? What does it mean to live in a community? What are the responsibilities of professional thinkers to the public? And, of course, why so serious?

Back to the film: like many, I enjoyed Cornell West’s fragmented appearances. Zizek was fun, always, but he’s becoming a grouch who seems to want to be contrarian just for the shock value (“You call this pornography? Oh no, my god.”). West spoke to something that I experience: alternating intensity and boredom. We share the same love for Beethoven’s final piano sonata; the first time I heard it I needed everyone to listen to it. How could people live without it? But I could never write about my favourite music—why? And what about boredom? When the things that really make you feel alive are too intense so you need a break and just shut down completely? Ennui might be a better term. I think we need to embrace that feeling sometimes instead of feeling anxious about not engaging with our wonderful texts all the time.

I think of these responses as a starting point, with the real work going on collectively when we meet. So, here’s to a productive conversation!