lettershttp://www.stillbook.org/letters/2012-11-24T02:47:22ZSquarespacehttp://www.stillbook.org/letters/2011/7/17/prologue.htmlStillbook2011-07-17T16:08:57Z2011-07-17T16:08:57Z
My friend Michel de Montaigne was born on February 28th, 1533 near the town of Bordeaux, France. Generally considered the father of the modern essay, he was interested in a wide variety of subjects and held the classical philosophers of ancient Greece and Rome in high regard. His style of writing was highly personal and strikingly informal. He started composing his Essais at the age of 38 and worked on them in his private library until his death in 1592.

I was born on March 20th, 1968 near the city of Chicago, Illinois. Currently, I am not considered the father of any particular style of writing. I suppose, however, that my interests in reading, writing, and traveling are worth noting. And, although I don’t have a private library, I did compose the following letters, addressed to Monsieur Montaigne, from my home in North Carolina between June 2003 and September 2004. Since he is obviously unable to read them, I thought I might share them with you.

Sincerely,
Brian Crean

]]>http://www.stillbook.org/letters/2011/7/17/on-paris-walking-and-talking.htmlStillbook2011-07-17T16:05:50Z2011-07-17T16:05:50Z
My name is Brian Crean, and I have spent the last two years reading and studying your essays. While traveling to Paris early last year, I was fortunate enough to stumble upon a translation of your work in a small bookshop near Boulevard Saint Germain des Pres.

I am thankful for my discovery, as I am also thankful for my good friends, who without knowing it, indirectly introduced me to you. My good friend, Pascal, is French, and although I've known him for eight years now, last year was the first time we ever spent time together in France. My respect for him grew on that trip, as it was one of the first times I heard him speak his native language at great length. My native language is English, and unfortunately, I am fluent in no other languages. Pascal, and his sister Sophie, speak both French and English with great ease, and I must admit that I am a bit envious of them. But, on the other hand, I feel grateful to have met them both. As you know, it is not often that you meet someone with whom you can share an engaging conversation.

Your father was wise indeed to encourage your being raised to speak Latin. Languages are so much more easily learned while we are young. I've been trying to learn French recently, but because I am 35 years old, and because I have yet to plan another trip to Paris, I have not been studying often. Like you, my spirit and my mind tend to wander in a meandering sort of way. Without an obvious and visible finish line, so to speak, I tend to lose interest in activities.

Perhaps this is why I am writing to you now. After recently finishing your essays, I am anxious to restart my studies with pen and paper. I think that although we are alike, your humility reaches far beyond my own. At times, I can be too opinionated and sure of myself. Fortunately, those times don't last very long. My personality is usually wavering and unsure and avoids heated arguments, at least until my frustration hinders my better judgment.

Lately I've been trying to spend time with people who are smarter than myself. Since reading the ancient Sanskrit text The Art of Wealth, I have learnded the importance of wise associations. As Kauthilya, the Indian philosopher, once wrote,

"The root of mastery of the faculties is guidance;
the root of guidance is attendance upon elders.
From the attendance upon elders comes discernment;
by means of discernment one may prosper."

And,

"The thinking individual should designate an advisor who is a fitting counterpart to oneself."

And finally,

"One who is learned and innocent of pretense should be made a counselor."

Monsieur Montaigne, before I continue further, I should probably say thank you. WIthout knowing it, you have become an advisor and a counselor to me. I have been learning a great deal by reading the fruit of your "back shop." Your essays, the result of the time you spent in your private library, have benefited my life immensely.

So now, since it is impossible for us to speak, or share conversation, I thought I might simply write a series of letters to you. As I said earlier, in some ways, I think we are alike, and I have decided to stucture these letters with your essays in mind. Perhaps the very best activities are those that mix elements of structure with elements of spontaneity.

I am especially happy to have discovered your Essais in Paris. While Rome was your great foreign love; thus far, mine has been Paris. For me, it seems appropriately far away, and because my knowlegde of it is only cursory, it is quite easy for my imagination to project many of my own ideals into its streets and citizens. In a way, at least of late, Paris has become my civic mistress. Unfortunately, it seems that romance needs imagination. If I were as familiar with Paris as I am with my own hometown, I doubt that I would hold it in such high regard. I might even begin to resent it for not living up to my dreamy expectations. Perhaps, in reality, I am only intrigued by Paris because I have imagined it to embody the things I hold dear. In any event, no matter how I imagine it, I don't think that I'll ever be accomplished enough to be awarded an honorary citizenship there. I am happy that Rome was able to do this for you. Clearly, the city leaders recognized your unique contribution to the world.

I do believe, however, that Paris is a wonderfual city. The architecture is stunning, and the streets are winding and perfect for walking. Additionally, the respect that the French people have for art, culture, and conversation is something I admire very much. Having been raised in an often loud and ignorant country, I have a great respect for the nuance and subtlety associated with French culture. In my own country, many people believe that more of everything is better. They also tend to believe that bigger things are better than smaller things. I disagree completely. In the words of Gracian,

"Little and good is twice good."

And, as you wrote in Book One of your essays,

"There is nothing so hampering, so cloying, as abundance."

I also think that the French language is the most poetic language I have heard. With so much emphasis on vowels, it seems to dance along in a lyrical sort of way. But unfortunately, although French is beautiful to hear, it is difficult to speak, at least for my sometimes slow and discriminating mind. It takes me a long time to learn how to pronounce many French words and phrases, and once I learn to pronounce them well, it takes me an even longer time to commit them to memory. Perhaps I am the sort of person who must live in a country for a long time before I am able to learn to speak another language competently. I hope to learn more French as the years go by. I also hope to spend many more months in Paris before my brain and heart expire.

Although my nerves are easily frazzled while traveling, I can't imagine not being able to venture beyond my home from time to time. If I am unable to get away when I feel the need, I can become quite irritable and unpleasant to those around me.

I think that traveling is simply a part of my nature. Not only do I value each of my adventures individually, but I also learn something about myself in the process of acclimating to each new and strange environment. When I travelled to Ireland, for example, I learned that I can become quite a lively dancer. For some reason, the friendliness of the Irish people put me at ease, and I was able to dance effortlessly. Or, perhaps, I only danced well because I found myself drinking a bit more than I usually do. Unfortunately, when the mood strikes me, I can get carried away by alcohol. There is something about traveling that makes me less prudent, I'm afraid. I often wish I was less of a chameleon.

Years ago, while traveling in Germany, I remember that I tended to walk fast and upright, as many Germans do. In Russia, because of all of the economic unrest at the time, I tended to walk with my hands in my pockets, guarding my passport and my money. In Finland and in Denmark, I tended to walk very clumsily, because of the many striking and statuesque women living there. In Poland, I tended to walk as in Germany. In Italy, I tended to walk very slowly, almost as if ambling around. And, recently, while visiting Paris, I tended to walk at whatever pace I tended to talk - sometimes quickly and with wit and style, and , at other times, more slowly, almost as though I were lost. I particularly liked walking through the many parks and small streets of Paris. With less automobile traffic to worry about, it was easier to walk around as if I were born there.

In my own country, I tend to forget the way I walk. If I had to guess, I think that I would say that I walk differently than most of my fellow countrymen. Sometimes fast. Sometimes slow. I'm likely a bit more hesitant when I venture out than when I find my way back home. A lot of people in my country eat what is called "fast food" while they rush around to accomplish unimportant things. It looks exhausting. They really ought to take the time to sit down for a good meal with a good friend. If I could afford it, I would invite a good friend out to lunch every day of the week. Eating and talking are as effortless as walking and talking. And, all three of these activities are perhaps my greatest pleasures - if I am in the right company, of course. I would certainly rather read a book than talk with someone with whom I have nothing in common. Better to be alone than to be forced to converse with a spiritual stranger - especially a loud one.

There is something rhythmic and comforting about a long walk, so long as the temperature is not too hot. Like you, Monsieur, I prefer the cold of winter to the heat of summer. But, that is a different topic altogether. Perhaps this, my very first letter addressed to you, has rambled on inappropriately. Instead of referencing the many good ideas in your essays, as I had originally intended, I'm afraid that I have allowed my mind to wander a bit much. So, with this in mind, I will say goodbye and write to you again soon.

Kind Regards,

Brian Crean

]]>http://www.stillbook.org/letters/2011/7/17/on-emerson-and-imaginary-bookstores.htmlStillbook2011-07-17T16:02:52Z2011-07-17T16:02:52Z
In your essay entitled, An Apology for Raymond Sebond, you wrote,

Most of the finest actions of the soul proceed from, and need, the impulsion of the passions.

Well, Monsieur, I couldn’t agree with you more. Another wonderful thinker, of whom you are certainly unfamiliar, named Ralph Waldo Emerson, once wrote,

Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm.

Having been born many years after your passing, Mr. Emerson was also interested in your essays. He even wrote his own essay about you – referring to you as The Skeptic. Though his assessment of your writing is certainly thoughtful and well considered, I wish that he had not labeled you in such a way. From my experience, labels, though helpful, can also become counter-productive. Such labels can even elicit a claustrophobic feeling within the person, or the soul, being labeled.

For example, I tend to resist being labeled passionately and with a healthy Emersonian enthusiasm; and, I suspect, quite ironically, that you might respond to Mr. Emerson’s label with an equal amount of disapproval. If the two of you were still alive today, I would love to hear your response to his essay about you. I bet that you would offer him many examples of how you are indeed a great and passionate believer of many specific and undeniable truths. Perhaps you only seem skeptical to Mr. Emerson because you often find it necessary to distance yourself from the foolishness of popular opinion and the arrogance of certain know-it-all thinkers. In a way, perhaps your skepticism is nothing more than a defense – a healthy and passionate defense developed to preserve your humble sort of authenticity. Or perhaps your skeptical response to certain propositions is similar in tone to that of Socrates. As you know, whenever he was faced with a person of inappropriate confidence, Socrates simply sought to open the other’s mind to different and even contrary possibilities. So, while you might appear to some as a skeptic, to others, you might also appear to be a great proponent of humility – someone who passionately celebrates the virtue of an open mind under all circumstances. I think that this is more how I see you.

I wonder if Emerson chose to see you as a skeptical thinker in order to further his own philosophical assertions. And, I wonder if I have essentially done the same thing. Of the many words Emerson wrote about you, for some reason, I have chosen to focus on the term skeptic. Perhaps I too have my own hidden agenda. Perhaps my agenda is to passionately defend and protect the independence of my own spirit. And, because I feel a certain connection to you, Monsieur, perhaps I am trying to defend the independence of your spirit as well. But, now, after having just written the previous sentence, I feel ashamed. Obviously, your spirit and your name need no protecting – especially by me. Maybe I have only just called attention to my own sensitivity to being labeled. Perhaps when people inaccurately label me, I should just remain calm and remember the words of Seneca,

A great soul speaks more relaxedly and assuredly.

It does seem true that, on occasion, it is unwise to waste words on unfounded accusations. I’m sure that, at times, by engaging in a debate, without intending to, I often legitimize my adversary’s assertion. And moreover, in this case, perhaps Emerson isn’t really an adversary. Perhaps he is just unaware of how certain independent spirits don’t like being labeled. I hope I am not quibbling unnecessarily. To clarify, let me just say that, for the most part, I agree with the opinions and assertions of Mr. Emerson. In fact, both he, and his contemporary, Henry David Thoreau, are two of my favorite American thinkers.

Abraham Maslow, another gifted thinker you might have enjoyed meeting, wrote a great deal about highly developed personalities. He referred to them as self-actualizing individuals. From his studies, he understood that many highly evolved personalities resist being labeled and classified. He even wrote an essay on the subject entitled Resistance to Being Rubricized. Essentially, Mr. Maslow, along with another famous American thinker named William James, believed it unwise to attach labels to people – as it interferes with the healthier notion that we are all unique and complex souls with something special to offer the world. If we embrace or accept being labeled, in a way, we admit our own lack of divinity.

Which reminds me of another related topic for discussion. Why must we label wise thinkers and writers the way we do? Why is Socrates found in the Philosophy section of our bookstores, while you are found in the Essay section? And, why are Maslow and James found in the Psychology section? Aren’t many of these thinkers interested in living wise and useful lives? Aren’t many of them talking about the same things? Maybe all of these labels and categories are interfering with our ability to see that many thinkers, no matter where or when they lived, have actually been fascinated by the same underlying concepts. From my experience, the wisest people simply understand that living is learning, and it is important to enjoy the search. If I were to ever own a bookstore, I would likely organize my bookshelves in a more intuitive, less categorized way. I might organize the shelves like so.

I. Wise Writers of Useful Non-Fiction
(Seneca, Montaigne, Emerson, Maslow, James, etc.)

II. Cerebral Writers of Useless Abstract Theory
(Currently Out of Stock)

III. Creative Writers of Meaningful Fiction and Poetry
(Shakespeare, Defoe, Mallarme, Camus, Rilke, Salinger, etc.)

IV. Superficial Writers of Escapist Fantasies
(Currently Out of Stock)

V. Witty Writers for Laughing and Smiling
(Also See Sections I & III)

OK. Maybe that’s enough for today. I hope you don’t mind my distaste for that skeptic label. If you ever wanted to poke fun at Monsieur Emerson, you could tell him that he’s just another one of those American Transcendentalists – a second rate Mystic of sorts.

Sincerely,
Brian Crean

Ps. I almost forgot these other sections of my imaginary bookstore.

VI. Geographical Maps & Travel Books
VII. Books about Gardening, Cooking, and Eating
VIII. Picture Books about Art and Photography
IX. Books to Read with Children
]]>http://www.stillbook.org/letters/2011/7/17/on-schopenhauer-and-being-bald.htmlStillbook2011-07-17T16:01:10Z2011-07-17T16:01:10Z
Lately, I have been reading the work of a philosopher named Arthur Schopenhauer. He was German and wrote mostly at the beginning of the 19th century. Just as Emerson labeled you a skeptic, many scholars throughout the years have labeled him a pessimist – which, as you might guess, seems unfortunate to me. But, I won’t go into that again.

In a work entitled Counsels and Maxims, he dedicated a chapter to The Ages of Life. And among other things, he wrote,

A great writer gives his best work to the world when he is about fifty years of age.

And,

The first forty years of life furnish the text, while the remaining thirty supply the commentary.

Because I am now 35 years old, I find all of this really quite interesting. Perhaps I should not bother writing this series of letters to you after all. Perhaps I should continue reading and aging for a few more years, and then, on my 40th birthday, I should start again. Didn’t you begin your essays when you were 38?

I particularly like Schopenhauer’s writing style, by the way. It’s more personal, open, and honest than most philosophical writing. For the most part, he doesn’t really try to remain objective and impartial, or if he does try, he doesn’t do a very good job.

Embracing one’s subjectivity is a rare and wonderful thing in the world of philosophy. I think that you would enjoy many of Schopenhauer’s later writings. Perhaps, even, the three of us are alike in a few ways:

1. We are each interested in the practical, useful, or well-grounded areas of philosophy.

2. We each have somewhat sensitive constitutions and are easily affected by our environments.

3. We each have wandering minds and personal writing styles.

4. We were each born under the sign of Pisces.

5. We were, or are, each bald.

I wonder when you started losing your hair? I started losing mine when I was about 20 years old, and when I was about 25, I started trimming my hair very short. I’m not familiar with the French or German attitudes about hair loss, but where I am from, men tend to worry a great deal about losing their hair. For some reason, baldness seems to be associated with weakness. In my culture, there are an abundance of advertisements for curing baldness.

“Are you suffering from hair loss?” they ask.

Well… I would say no. I am not suffering from hair loss. Instead, I am celebrating my forehead gain. While other men with full heads of hair are bothered by all kinds of hassles and hair care expenses, I am not. Furthermore, I never have to worry about looking unkempt in the morning, and in more than 10 years, I have not experienced a single bad hair day.

Although I was initially very self-conscious about losing my hair, I have since grown to embrace my older and simpler appearance. And while I am certainly not flashing or debonair, for some strange reason, it seems that a few women continue to be attracted to me. Perhaps this is because I am comfortable with my appearance despite my lack of hair. Although I am not yet 40, maybe I have the mind and head of a 40- year-old. Or maybe I have what some people call an old soul.

From the little I have read of astrology, persons born under the sign of Pisces are said to have old souls. They are also supposed to bloom later in life. Because Pisces natives are considered to be sensitive dreamers, they often develop unrealistic expectations of the world while they are young, which means that they then experience a great many disappointments.

I think this is interesting given that Schopenhauer once wrote,

In the bright dawn of our youthful days, the poetry of life spreads out a gorgeous vision before us, and we torture ourselves by longing to see it realized. We might as well wish to grasp the rainbow! The youth expects his career to be like an interesting romance; and there lies the germ of disappointment.

He also wrote,

The chief result gained by experience of life is clearness of view. This is what distinguishes the man of mature age, and makes the world wear such a different aspect from that which it presented in his youth or boyhood. It is only then that he sees things quite plain, and takes them for that which they really are: while in earlier years he saw a phantom-world, put together out of the whims and crotchets of his own mind, inherited prejudice and strange delusion: the real world was hidden from him, or the vision of it distorted.

I wonder if some people call Schopenhauer’s writing pessimistic because he needs to remind himself not to get carried away by any dreamy or unrealistic expectations of how he wishes the world to be. If I may say so, Monsieur, your writing seems to emphasize a practical or grounded approach to living as well. Would it be presumptuous of me to guess that your essays help you to stay clearly rooted in the world?

I suspect that, like you, the older and wiser Schopenhauer would make a very pleasant dinner guest. On the other hand, perhaps I shouldn’t think about such things. After all, since I am only a 35-year-old Pisces, I don’t want to set myself up for an unwise and youthful disappointment. But, I still think that it would be nice to shake Mr. Schopenhauer’s hand and look directly into his eyes. Perhaps I am just curious to compare his physical presence to my own. It would also be nice to have a living philosophical comrade with whom to talk. I think that I tend to bore some of my friends when I talk about my reading and writing. OK, that’s enough for today.

Take care,
Brian

Ps. Pisces are also supposed to like the arts, water, and snacking. Popcorn is my favorite snack.

]]>http://www.stillbook.org/letters/2011/7/17/on-style-and-substance.htmlStillbook2011-07-17T15:59:55Z2011-07-17T15:59:55Z
I have just been thumbing through the notebook that I keep next to your essays, but at the moment, I can't find the quotation I've been looking for. Didn't you once write,

"Boring books are unwise."

Perhaps not. To be honest, I don't really remember. Maybe Seneca wrote it. If I ever consider publishing these letters, I guess that I will have to do more research. But, then again, I don't think that I'm going to do that . For me, internalizing knowledge seems more important than cataloging it. Besides, I can't really claim to be the inventor of great ideas. It seems to me that the most worthwhile ideas and concepts have already been conceived. Maybe the best I can offer the world is my strange and unique personality and the rambling of my active imagination.

Perhaps my personality is the reason why I have been so annoyed with editors in the past. I simply don't like for others to interfere with my work. I guess I would rather be imperfect and completely myself than be perfect with the help of someone else. Essentially, you could say that my personal thesis statement might read:

"Here I am with all of my faults. Take me or leave me, but do not try to change me. When I am ready to change, I will change myself."

For some reason, my writing seems to suffer greatly when I imagine anyone reading what I write. I tend to become self-conscious and uable to think clearly. I suppose that I am extremely private about certain things, and I've never really been a big fan of any official or formal writing styles. Often, I find that formalities are quite boring and lifeless. In your essay OF BOOKS you quoted a passage by Plutarch.

"I would rather choose to know truly the conversation he held in his tent with some one of his intimate friends on the eve of a battle than the speech he made the next day to his army; and what he was doing in his study and his chamber than what he was doing in the public square and in the Senate."

Well, I certainly agree. I believe that unrehearsed situations are more interesting and informative than affected or staged performances. In fact, the tone and content of these very letters is purposefully informal. After having written for a newspaper for a short time in the past, I can't imagine doing it again. I am often amazed by what some people call serious writing. In my country, some newspaper journalists actually believe that they are able to write "objectively." This I find highly amusing.

I think that many writers and self-proclaimed philosophers are actually quite delusional really. How could someone possibly believe that he could remove himself completely from his work? And, why on earth would he want to do such a thing? To me, personality is everything, and the most beautiful thing we can share with one another is the gift of ourselves.

Why would anyone want to write a long and tiresome treatise filled with an abundance of large and pointless words? Why not just speak in clear terminology - honestly and truthfully from the heart? Besides, aren't the most intelligent people able to get their point across to anyone - no matter how uneducated? Or is wisdom reserved for the pompous few who memorize dictionaries in their spare time? I suppose I would just rather focus on the message the words convey than on the words themselves. While browsing through a bookstore recently, I actually came across a DICTIONARY OF PHILOSOPHY. Now this is just plain silly. No one should have to learn a whole new vocabulary to understand wise ideas. On the contrary, I would maintain that the wisest ideas are easily communicated using everyday language. Confusing language is simply used by confused philosophers. Just like my carpenter friend, Eric, once said,

"If you muddy up the water, it looks deep."

And just like you wrote,

"Those who have slim substance swell it out with words."

And,

"Excellent memories are prone to be joined to feeble judgments."

So, with that in mind, perhaps I shall keep this letter short and sweet. After all, it wouldn't make sense to write a long and wordy letter about being simple and direct. OK, before I say goodbye, I can't help but remind you of another one of your wonderful and direct statements.

"I offer myself meagerly and proudly to those to whom I belong."

Well Monsieur... so do I. I will write again soon.

Your friend,
Brian

]]>http://www.stillbook.org/letters/2011/7/17/on-art-and-intimacy.htmlStillbook2011-07-17T15:49:23Z2011-07-17T15:49:23Z
I was just thinking more about my last letter to you. Do you remember how I mentioned that we seemed to have the same interest in what goes on during informal situations? Well, that got me thinking about some of my favorite artists and how they seemed to be interested in the same thing - hidden moments as opposed to staged performances.

It’s funny really. The more I think about it, the more I realize that the artists whom I respect the most have all been interested in intimate imagery.

Jan Vermeer, a Dutch painter from the 16th century, was certainly interested in what goes on behind closed doors. His wonderfully detailed oil paintings usually depict one or two people absorbed in some sort of quiet or private activity - a woman holding pearls, a young girl receiving a love letter, or even a scientist studying a globe. His paintings are so suggestive and well-considered. I’ve often thought of painting an homage to Vermeer, since I also have a background in the visual arts.

Edgar Degas is an artist I think you would appreciate as well. Like you, he was French, but he lived mostly during the 19th century. He was a private man and was equally fascinated by the hidden moments of life. Though he lived the life of a solitary bachelor, it seems obvious to me that he actually longed to be a family man. He filled hundreds of drawings and paintings with women and children.

Many of his images depict women bathing or dressing themselves, and others depict little determined ballerinas as they prepare for their performances. Because he spent so much time with his female models, he obviously became quite perceptive regarding their thoughts and feelings. As I’m sure you are aware, a woman’s relationship with her body is a focus throughout her life. And, a little girl’s relationship with her mother is often filled with a complexity that few men ever notice. I believe that Degas, in addition to being a virtuoso artist, was also a perceptive psychologist.

From what I have read, I think many people have misunderstood his personality however. Though he had a reputation for being a big grump, he certainly expressed his sensitivity through his work. Deep down, I think his grumpiness was just a defense mechanism. Perhaps when people feel so deeply, they tend to feel vulnerable. And, I’m sure that Degas was only surly to the people he considered offensive.

While I attended graduate school and studied fine art, I was often short with anyone who misinterpreted my work. I think it is common for artists to fend off annoying and insensitive criticisms – no matter how well meaning they are. In the end, I suppose people can only understand art that is created on their own level of consciousness. Subtle art for subtle minds and obtuse art for obtuse minds.

Two other French artists I think you might enjoy are Eduard Vuillard and Pierre Bonnard. Like Degas, they were also Parisians, and they each lived and worked mostly in the 19th and 20th centuries. Their style even became known as Intimism, and, rightfully so. Like Vermeer and Degas, they mostly depicted quiet interiors and solitary moments. Although their painting style was generally less detailed and often filled with more imaginative color, they also seemed fascinated by the interior life of women. Bathing and sewing, subtlety and nuance were their primary interests and specialty.

Lately, I’ve been reading a book by Lord Avebury called The Pleasures of Life, and so far, I really like it. Though the author seems more interested in science than I currently am, he still wrote a very nice chapter on Art that I think you might have enjoyed reading. Didn’t you have an interest in theater as a young boy? From what I remember of your essays, it seems like you had some respect for the arts. And, given the amount of time and energy that you dedicated to your essays, I can’t imagine that you would not be interested in other forms of creative expression.

As Lord Avebury wrote in his book,

As the sun colors flowers, so does art color life.

And,

To see clearly is poetry, prophesy, and religion all in one… Those who love beauty will see beauty everywhere.

Speaking of poetry, Lord Avebury also had some perceptive thoughts here as well.

A true poem is a gallery of pictures.

The Hebrews called their poets ‘seers,’ for they not only perceive more than others, but also help men to see much which would otherwise be lost to us.

To appreciate poetry we must not merely glance at it, or rush through it, or read it in order to talk or write about it. One must compose oneself into the right frame of mind.

This last quotation seems especially pertinent to me. Earlier in this letter, do you remember how I complained about the clueless criticism I encountered in art school? This is exactly what I’m talking about. A clueless critic is just the type of person who foolishly rushes through life – interested in only cursory understanding and crude classifications. A person who does not take the time to slow down and ponder something in a more imaginative way, to me, isn’t worth my time. And, I certainly am uninterested in their boring and usually sophomoric commentaries. I’m sorry if that sounds arrogant or dismissive. I guess sometimes I just get frustrated that so many people are unable to see so many wonderful things.

OK Monsieur. I suppose that’s enough for today. Take care. I will write again soon.

Your friend,
Brian

]]>http://www.stillbook.org/letters/2011/7/17/on-leadership-and-self-expression.htmlStillbook2011-07-17T15:47:18Z2011-07-17T15:47:18Z
I’m afraid my last letter’s exuberant tone really exposed one of my passions. After re-reading it, I even surprised myself a bit. Like I said in my first letter to you, I guess I do get carried away and frustrated from time to time. Oh well… I suppose getting carried away is just the negative side of having an intense personality. Perhaps I need to be more careful in the future however – and show better reserve before beginning one of my opinionated monologues. But, on the other hand, it seems easy to speak more candidly with you, since I know we are so much alike.

As usual, I’m continuing to read quite a bit in my spare time. I just finished a wonderful little book today, entitled The Art of Leadership, and in it, the author, J. D. Walters, outlines the attributes and characteristics of an effective leader. I found many of his thoughts worthwhile indeed. One point he made seems especially interesting – given the topic of my last letter.

A work of art reveals not only the skill, but also the consciousness, the basic attitudes, the philosophy of life, of the artist… The true success of an undertaking depends more than anything else on the spirit of the people involved in it.

I think that our old friend Seneca would concur, since he once wrote,

Our thoughts and our words proceed from our spirit… We derive our demeanor and expression and the very way we walk from it.

At the risk of sounding like a shallow flatterer once again, I’m thankful for your essays Monsieur. I think that they are a wonderful expression of your spirit. Although it is obviously impossible for us to meet face to face, I’m not so sure that this even matters. It seems to me that your essays embody your spirit, and by my reading them and agreeing with so much of their contents, in a way, I am able to meet you each time my eyes read your sentences and each time my mind relates to your message.

I hope that doesn’t sound too sentimental. Perhaps I find myself feeling lonely from time to time. Sometimes, I wonder if I should seek out a living philosophical comrade. But, other times, I wonder if my loneliness is a blessing – a healthy condition encouraging me to write these very letters. I think that if I had someone to talk to about all of these things, I would probably write less often. Actually, I know this is true because once I tell someone that I’m going to do something, I rarely end up doing it. It’s as if talking about something quenches my thirst for actually doing it.

I wonder if loneliness is an important piece of creative expression. Perhaps with each painting, poem, and essay, creative spirits are simply saying,

I am alive. Notice my spirit. And, in noticing mine, see your own.

Maybe art is nothing more than an intimate, spiritual mirror. As our old friend Schopenhauer wrote,

The nature of art is such that in art one single case stands for thousands.

And,

Great minds are like eagles, and build their nest in some lofty solitude.

And,

A man of great intellect is like an artist who gives a concert without any help from anyone else… Like a piano, he has no place in a symphony… or if in company with other instruments, only in principle; or for setting the tone.

I wonder if I am really not lonely after all. In some ways, I remain isolated, but in others I feel a sense of community. I have friends and family to joke and play with, just none to think deeply with. Many of my friends tend to grow tired of my ponderings. For some reason, they usually find my endless curiosity tiresome.

Lately, I’ve learned to just talk with friends about more light-hearted topics such as sports, politics, and religion. Just kidding… In a strange kind of way, however, the three of these topics do seem more related than one might expect. They each lead to an easy or convenient way of viewing the world – winner vs. loser, right vs. wrong, good vs. evil, heaven vs. hell, etc. Also, they each tend to have a dramatic, exaggerated feel about them. But, I guess that’s another conversation for another time. OK. Until next month...

Brian

]]>http://www.stillbook.org/letters/2011/7/17/on-lin-yutang-and-poetic-philosophy.htmlStillbook2011-07-17T15:31:07Z2011-07-17T15:31:07Z
I started writing a letter to you a couple of weeks ago, but I didn’t like the way it was going, so I decided to stop and start again some other day. I guess I’m just one of those people who doesn’t like forcing things. I’d rather wait until I feel more inspired – until I feel ready to write. Plus, since I want these letters to be an uplifting personal project, I don’t really see the point of dutifully forcing myself to be creative. Generally, the whole notion of forcing something is foreign to me. I think my personality is more evasive than confrontational. For the most part, if things are not moving along at a relaxed and easy going pace, then I’d rather just opt out.

The letter I started last week was about another one of my favorite writers – Lin Yutang. In a way, I’m a little surprised that I haven’t mentioned him to you before now. I suppose that I can become so absorbed in reading a certain author that I forget about my other favorites. In my mind, Mr. Yutang’s best book is called The Importance of Living. Published in 1937, the book begins much like your essays – subjective, thoughtful, and humble. The first paragraph of the Preface reads,

This is a personal testimony, a testimony of my own experience of thought and life. It is not intended to be objective and makes no claim to establish eternal truths. In fact I rather despise claims to objectivity in philosophy; the point of view is the thing. I should have liked to call it ‘A Lyrical Philosophy,’ using the word ‘lyrical’ in the sense of being a highly personal and individual outlook. But that would be too beautiful a name and I must forego it, for fear of aiming too high and leading the reader to expect too much, and because the main ingredient of my thought is matter-of-fact prose, a level easier to maintain because more natural. Very much contented am I to lie low, to cling to the soil, to be of kin to the sod. My soul squirms comfortably in the soil and sand and is happy. Sometimes when one is drunk with this earth, one’s spirit seems so light that he thinks he is in heaven. But actually he seldom rises six feet above the ground.

I wonder when Mr. Yutang wrote his Preface? Do you think he wrote it before the main body of the book? Or do you think he wrote it after he had finished the book, just prior to sending it to his publishers?

When did you write your Preface Monsieur? I bet you wrote it after the first publication of your essays. In my mind, it has a somewhat defensive tone – as if it is saying, my writing falls outside the realm of the usual criticisms.

On the other hand, if I had to venture a guess, I bet that you titled each of your individual essays before you started writing them, and then you allowed yourself to stray from the original discussion. In case you were wondering, I’ve been titling each of these letters after I’ve finished writing them. Although I start with a certain author or idea in mind, I still like to think of a title after I’ve finished writing the letter. It makes it seem like I’m more organized than I really am, however.

I think one of the reasons why I like Lin Yutang so much is that he and I share the same attitude about the best kind of philosophy. We are both drawn to poetic or lyrical discussions. Much of traditional western philosophy seems pointless to us both. Mr. Yutang thinks of himself as a Chinese Humanist, and the titles of the chapters in The Importance of Living are just the kind I like. He doesn’t write any treatises or critiques, or any metaphysical or epistemological arguments. Here are a few of his chapter titles, and as you might guess, I am drawn to them all.

Human Life a Poem, On Having a Stomach, On Playful Curiosity, The Importance of Loafing, The Cult of the Idle Life, On Sex Appeal, On Growing Old Gracefully, On Sitting in Chairs, On Tea and Friendship, On Bigness, On Rocks and Trees, Art as Play and Personality, and, The Return to Common Sense.

I especially like the last title as it relates to philosophy. Here are a few quotes from Mr. Yutang’s book. A few years ago, when I originally read them, tears welled up in my eyes. After so many years of feeling intellectually isolated, I was so relieved to learn that someone else had thought so many of the same things that I had. In a way, I sometimes wonder if my intellectual and spiritual personality is more Chinese than American.

Here are a few of my favorite excerpts from Mr. Yutang’s book. I hope I haven’t included too many.

The Chinese philosopher’s view of life is essentially the poet’s view of life, in China, philosophy is married to poetry rather than to science as it is in the west.

Human wisdom cannot be merely the adding up of specialized knowledge or obtained by a study of statistical averages; it can be achieved only by insight, the general prevalence of more common sense, more wit and more plain, but subtle, intuition.

There is clearly a distinction between logical thinking and reasonable thinking, which may be also expressed as the difference between academic thinking and poetic thinking. Of academic thinking we have a great deal, but of poetic thinking we find very little evidence in the modern world.

The wisdom of life consists in the elimination of non-essentials, in reducing the problems of philosophy to just a few – the enjoyment of the home, of living, of nature and of culture - and in showing all the other irrelevant disciplines and futile chases after knowledge to the door.

We have today a philosophy that has become stranger to life itself, that has almost half disclaimed any intention to teach us the meaning of life and the wisdom of living, a philosophy that has lost that intimate feeling of life or awareness of living which we spoke of as the very essence of philosophy… For the disease of thinking typified by Descartes’ famous discovery: ‘I think therefore I exist,’ we have to substitute the more human and more sensible statement of Walt Whitman’s: ‘I am sufficient as I am.’ Life or existence does not have to go down on its knees and beg logic to prove that it exists or that it is there.

I especially like this last excerpt. As a philosophy student 15 years ago, I regularly questioned the wisdom of what I was being taught. I was once required to take a class called Practical Logic, and as you might imagine, what we studied didn’t seem very practical to me. Not once did we discuss how to be happy or how to love people well. Instead, we learned that if A is not B and B is not X, then A and X may or may not be the same.

Maybe it’s just me, but I always wondered how A, B or X could help me to become a happy and wise person. I think that if I were ever to teach a course called Practical Logic, I would discuss things that are actually practical. For example, we might talk about how people with shifty eyes tend to be untrustworthy. And because untrustworthy people rarely make good friends, it is generally a good idea not to become friends with people who have shifty eyes.

Or, we might discuss the logic of humor. For example, we might notice that what we consider humorous is often unexpected and surprising. And, we might come to the conclusion that very predictable things are generally not very humorous.

One thing is for sure, the last thing that most students would say about modern education is that it is unpredictable. I’m sure that if we took a survey, most students would say that they think of school assignments as dry, predictable, and boring. And, on the other hand, my guess is that most of those same students would also say that their favorite teachers were funny or, at the very least, entertaining.

So given this, I wonder why so many teachers and professors aren’t happier and more carefree while they teach. I think it is really a shame that schools are often so incredibly boring. Logically speaking, I see no reason why this must be the case. Can’t learning be enjoyable? I think it can, and I would even go so far as to say that true learning must be enjoyable – otherwise, students won’t remember what they have learned. Maybe I’m just strange, but I definitely tend to learn more when I am having fun. I also tend to remember the times that I have laughed more than the times I’ve been bored.

I suppose that I just don’t understand why our traditional systems of education have to be so dry and serious and boring. Do you remember when I wrote to you a while back and mentioned the quotation about boring books being unwise? Well, let me now add that in my opinion,

Boring teachers are unwise.

Lately, I’ve been reading Aristotle’s Ethics., and although I find many of his thoughts and distinctions substantive and helpful, I must say that I am a little disappointed with his style. His writing is so categorical and predictable that I sometimes find that my mind drifts away from his analysis, and I start to daydream. Every few pages, I have to stop and re-read what I thought I had just finished reading. I think that Mr. Yutang said it well when he wrote, Aristotle was strictly the grandfather of the modern text-book writers, being the first man to cut up knowledge into separate compartments – from physics and botany to ethics and politics. As was quite inevitable, he was the first man also to start the impertinent academic jargon incomprehensible to the common man, which is being outdone by the American sociologists and psychologists of today.

I don’t know about you Monsieur, but I always hated reading textbooks while I was a student. Consequently, I don’t think that I learned much back then either. Although I mastered the art of teacher-pleasing while I was in college, I only occasionally enjoyed and took pride in my studies. Really, it has only been in the last five years or so that I’ve begun to enjoy my learning. I think, too, that writing is more memorable when it is filled with an occasional witty remark or a surprising detour.

So, with that in mind, I’m going to spend a few minutes searching through my notes of Mr. Yutang’s book, and I’m going to pick out another quotation that may or may not have anything to do with the contents of this letter…

OK. Here you are,

There is an ease, a sureness, a lightness of touch, that comes from mastery… Seriousness, after all, is only a sign of effort, and effort is a sign of imperfect mastery.

Here’s one more,

I prefer talking to a maid to talking with a mathematician; her words are more concrete, her laughter is more energetic, and I generally gain more in knowledge of human nature by talking with her.

Au revoir smart guy.

Brian

]]>http://www.stillbook.org/letters/2011/7/17/on-wandering-money-and-bacon.htmlStillbook2011-07-17T15:28:28Z2011-07-17T15:28:28Z
About a week ago I did one of my favorite things. It was a cool and sunny day, so I decided to travel to a nearby town. When the weather is nice, I just love to drive for an hour or two.

Typically when I visit another town, I do three things. First, I like to browse through a bookstore and buy a book. Second, I like to browse through a music store and buy some music. And third, I like to find a quiet little cafe' and have a bite to eat.

I suppose I'm pretty easy to please then. After all, I don't really care about expensive clothes, cars, or food. I suppose part of the reason why I don't care for expensive things has to do with the people who seem to hover around those things. While there are always exceptions, I think that people with expensive tastes are often lacking in depth. It is as if they think that their belongings will impress other people and make up for their lack of personality.

Also, it seems like people who are always chasing after money have their priorities out of order. I mean what does a person really need a great deal of money for? Does anyone really need a giant mansion? Or glamorous clothes? Or expensive meals? To me, mansions are mostly cold and empty. Glamorous clothes are mostly uncomfortable and difficult to wash. And, expensive meals usually taste strange and upset my stomach, which reminds me about one thing that is a little tricky about traveling.

When I travel, I often feel a bit uneasy about trying too many different types of food. While one part of me very much wants to be adventurous and learn about another town or another culture, a different part of me very much wants to maintain the regularity of my bowels and not spend the better part of my journey sitting on a toilet. For me, this travel and food conundrum is a very serious problem. I actually have spent a large part of two different trips sitting on a toilet - all because I was trying to be an open-minded traveler and an experimental eater. But, I guess being an experimental eater isn't the same thing as being an expensive eater, which brings me back to the whole money issue again.

It's not that I don't like money, but rather, I don't particularly like most of the stuff that people with money tend to like. To me, money simply offers time, travel, and security. Time is valuable because with it a person can do what he loves to do without having to think about making money. Travel is valuable because life is more interesting when a person can experience new places and meet new people. And, security is valuable because without it, a person will feel stressed and uneasy, and these feelings will undermine his ability to enjoy life.

In any event, last week, when I drove to a neighboring town, I bought a book of ESSAYS by Francis Bacon. Since he was born in England in 1561, I think he is someone you may have heard of - although I will say that his essays are a bit dryer in style and shorter in length than yours.

I think that, for the most part, Mr. Bacon was primarily interested in being concise. I suspect he was not much of an intellectual wanderer. His writing doesn't meander or ponder at all really. When he writes about Truth, Love, Revenge, and Travel, he has definitive instructions and ideas to convey. He catalogs examples almost as if he is making a list. It's a good thing that each particular essay isn't very long; otherwise, I would surely get bored - just like when I read Aristotle or an academic textbook.

If I were Mr. Bacon and I were to write about my own travels, I might write something like this.

"When a person driveth to a neighboring town, one should not driveth too fast nor too slow. One should driveth with care and consulteth a map so one does not get lost and waste time upon careless matters. One should take note of and appreciate local architecture, nature, and personage during said travels. Be advised to avoid those who poseth or pretend toward importance. Book shops, music shops, and affordable restaurants may provide one with feelings of contentment. If one haveth a simple constitution, one should ingest food primarily for nourishment and not for experiment. Experimental ingestion may resulteth in unpredictable digestive activity, which may in turn, causeth extended water closet visitation."

You know, the more I think about it, perhaps neither one of us would enjoy meeting Mr. Bacon so much. If the style of his writing is indicative of his personality, he probably would not have been very intersting to speak with. But then again, perhaps he would be so intelligent that the content of his thoughts would override his less than colorful delivery. Or, perhaps his living personality is very different from or more entertaining than his style of writing. In the end, I suppose we'll never know.

On a different note, I thought you might be interested in knowing that today is my birthday. Remember when I mentioned to you that I too was born under the sign of Pisces? Well, I was actually born on the last day of the astrological calendar. Although I don't put all of my faith in astrology, I do believe that there is something to learn from pondering all that it suggests. And, inexplicably, like I've mentioned in previous letters to you, I do feel an affinity with other people born under my sign. I know that in your essays, you seemed very skeptical of astrological studies, but I still find it interesting that you would think the topic at least meaningful enough to write about. After all, if astrology is complete foolishness, I'm sure you wouldn't have taken the time to mention it is your essays at all - if even to discredit it. It's funny, too, that Schopenhauer chose to discuss the planets as they relate to our stages of life.

In my next letter to you, I think I'm going to tell you about another Pisces thinker who was born in the 19th century. Believe it or not, he was a scientist, and his personality was far from boring. In my era, his name has even become synonymous with the term "genius."

Bonjour,
Brian

]]>http://www.stillbook.org/letters/2011/7/17/on-einstein-and-intuition.htmlStillbook2011-07-17T15:19:35Z2011-07-17T15:19:35Z
Like I mentioned to you in my last letter, I thought I would tell you about another famous Pisces thinker. A few years ago, I spent a month or two reading a couple of his books, and as usual, I wrote down a few excerpts for future reference. It’s funny really, I’ve spent most of the last five years reading books and carefully taking notes, and now while writing these letters to you, I’ve been referencing all of those notes constantly. I love when my seemingly illogical actions and intuitions end up becoming logical after all.

OK, so here he is…. Albert Einstein, the most renowned 20th century scientist, in his own words.

When I examine myself and my methods of thought, I come to the conclusion that the gift of fantasy has meant more to me than my talent for absorbing positive knowledge.

Imagination is more important than knowledge.

Any intelligent fool can make things bigger, more complex, and more violent. It takes a touch of genius - and a lot of courage - to move in the opposite direction.

Few people are capable of expressing with equanimity opinions which differ from the prejudices of their social environment. Most people are even incapable of forming such opinions.

Few are those who see with their own eyes and feel with their own hearts.

I have no special gift, I am only passionately curious.

Although I’m certainly not an authority on Mr. Einstein’s scientific theories, I do believe that I understand his way of thinking quite well. It seems to me that he was a fundamentally independent and creative personality who was easily bored by the assumptions that had already been accepted by his contemporaries. Essentially, he was an innovator who realized that if he followed existing rules, he would inevitably end up relearning what was already understood. His focus and his challenge was to experiment with new possiblities and to have faith in his own meandering intuitions. One of my favorite statements by him is this,

Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds.

Not only does this quote reference Einstein’s own intuitive or faith driven proclivity, it also suggests that anyone who clings to a purely rational way of thinking will never achieve anything great, unique, or innovative. The mediocre minds Einstein refers to are those people who think they are smart because they understand what is already accepted. Because of their lack of intuition and their lack of insight, they are not capable of formulating new hypotheses. Thus, the mediocre mind opposes what it doesn’t understand. It dismisses independence as foolishness. And, it becomes enraged when its assumptions are questioned. Tuition is secondary for Einstein; intuition primary. Here are a few more statements that further clarify his intuitive, faithful orientation.

The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true art and true science. Whoever does not know it and can no longer wonder, no longer marvel, is as good as dead, and his eyes are dimmed. It was the experience of mystery - even mixed with fear - that engendered religion. A knowledge of the existence of something we cannot penetrate, our perceptions of the profoundest reason and the most radiant beauty, which only in their most primitive forms are accessible to our minds - it is this knowledge and the emotion that constitute true religiousity; in this sense, and in this alone, I am a deeply religious man.

The divine reveals itself in the physical world.

When the solution is simple, God is answering.

Given his respect for the spiritual, it’s not surprising that Einstein didn’t value the traditional educational system either. Here are a few quotes that give us an idea of how he felt about traditional forms of education and institutional indoctrination.

It is a very grave mistake to think that the enjoyment of seeing and searching can be promoted by means of coercion and a sense of duty.

I believe, on the whole, that love is a better teacher than a sense of duty.

Because of my poor memory for words, this presented me with great difficulties that it seemed senseless for me to overcome. I preferred, therefore, to endure all sorts of punishments rather than learn to gabble by wrote.

The only thing that interferes with my learning is my education.

If we knew what we were doing, it would not be called research, would it?

I shall not become a Ph.D... The whole comedy has become a bore to me.

A few years ago, I completed a Master of Fine Arts degree, and I must say that I agree with Einstein’s suggestion that degrees are essentially comedies. Many of my professors were unable to step outside of their own limited perspectives. Although I studied with a few thoughtful teachers, most of them seemed more interested in gathering a group of followers or admirers than they were in helping their students develop a unique voice. Too much ego and silly jargon, not enough trust and faithful curiosity.

Shouldn’t teachers see themselves as resources? Shouldn’t they hope that their students disagree with them on a regular basis? And, shouldn’t they know to leave their more advanced students alone most of the time – encouraging them to find their own unique voice by their own unique methods? After all, aren’t the students who need to be prodded simply wasting everyone’s time and energy? If a student doesn’t love what he’s doing, he’ll never achieve anything of substance. And, he definately won’t continue working after finishing his academic requirements. In my mind, a student who must be prodded is simply studying the wrong thing; he has not uncovered his inborn area of interest.

If I were ever to open a school of learning, I would only have one requirement. All students must enjoy their studies. Any student who does not will be expelled. Although this might sound extreme, I think that expelling uninterested students would be helpful to all involved. A student’s expulsion may be just what he needs in order to find his rightful place in the world. His expulsion would remind him that he is not on the right track – the track that will lead to his inner fulfillment.

I might also require that grades would only be given to teachers. In fact, I might even have the students do the grading. That way, helpful, uplifting teachers would feel rewarded, and negative, critical teachers would know where to improve. Ideally, students would simply study what they like with whichever teacher they like. The interests of the students would serve as the foundation upon which their education would be built. In the words of the ancient Chinese philosopher Confusius,

Those whose paths are not the same do not consult one another.

I think that knowing with whom to consult is a powerful gift. And, I also think it is a powerful gift to be aware of when you feel at home. Perhaps our greatest challenge in life is to understand where and with whom we belong. Which teachers help us the most? Which friends seem most interested in our mental, spiritual, and physical health? Which partner is most supportive of our deepest interests and passions? Which job is both challenging and rewarding? Maybe this is what Einstein is referring to when he says,

When the solution is simple, God is answering.

Maybe we actually don’t need a bunch of reasons to do something or to be with someone? Maybe we only need to have an intuitive feeling of rightness or an inexplicable sense of belonging. I think that this is the feeling that I had when I started reading your essays Monsieur. The truth is that although I’ve studied both Philosophy and Fine Art at several different universities, I feel most at home while hunched over a book like yours – reading, writing, and pondering.

As I’m sure you are aware, intuition is truly a powerful gift. But, it is a subtle gift, and a gift that is often difficult to hear. In order to hear its whispering voice, we must be calm and undistratcted. Lately, I’ve been reading the work of a psychologist named Erich Fromm, and I’ve been discovering the many wonderful things he wrote about personal awareness. He also wrote a book about Love, but I better tell you about him in my next letter. This one feels like it needs to be finished up today.

Take care,
Brian

Ps. I can’t resist giving you one last quote by our friend Einstein.

“If I were not a physicist, I would probably be a musician,” he once said.

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