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& even today I may not be able to produce anything better than a jumble of incoherent sentences
Oh, God, I may have used Wittgenstein to cure a moral fault in myself. I'm not sure which of us that's going to embarrass more.
While in Raven Used Books on Wednesday with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rushthatspeaks, I bought Norman Malcolm's Ludwig Wittgenstein: A Memoir (1958), the second edition with Wittgenstein's letters included.1 I'd never heard of Malcolm as a philosopher, but the memoir is affectionately and seriously written and unless they were popular anecdotes, looks like the source for several scenes in Jarman's film. He is trying both to honor and to demystify Wittgenstein (who had a hero-cult in his lifetime already) without whitewashing him; I think he succeeds, since Wittgenstein by Malcolm comes off as brilliant, depressing, electrifying, exhausting, a restlessly unhappy man, and a weirdly lovable one, which about fits what I've gathered from other sources, including Wittgenstein.2 I am afraid the letters are just incredibly endearing. There are fifty-seven of them, written over a period of eleven years (1940–1951, the last dated thirteen days before his death); they tend toward the rapid-fire jotting stream-of-consciousness and generally give the impression that if blogging had been available in Wittgenstein's lifetime, no one would ever have pried him off the computer. He loves the American detective magazines which he can't get during the war, so the Malcolms send him care packages of Street & Smith—he seems to have bounced hard off Sayers, but he spends several letters trying to track down further stories by Norbert Davis, author of Rendezvous with Fear. He has a thing about schmaltzy holiday cards. ("Tell Doney his Christmas card wasn't soupy enough.") He drinks a lot of instant coffee. He has to tell Malcolm he's sent him a surprise present—"I thought you mightn't have it & that it might interest you"—because he's afraid it got lost in the mail from London, which it didn't. He can never quite stop talking philosophy. And he cannot go three letters without starting to apologize for how useless and uninteresting he is:
—As a matter of fact I've been feeling pretty rotten most of this summer. Partly because of bad health, partly because my brain was no d . . . good at all and I couldn't work. I'm feeling a bit better now. That's to say, my health is entirely all right & my mind seems a little more active. But God knows how long that will last.
My work is going damn slowly. I wish I could get a volume ready for publishing by next autumn; but I probably shan't. I'm a bloody bad worker!
Talking of philosophy: my book is gradually nearing its final form, & if you're a good boy & come to Cambridge I'll let you read it. It'll probably disappoint you. And the truth is: it's pretty lousy. (Not that I could improve on it essentially if I tried for another 100 years.)
But now my brain feels burnt out, as though only the four walls were left standing, & some charred remains!
I felt exceedingly depressed for many weeks, then fell ill & now I'm weak & completely dull . . . I shan't write more today, I'm much too dull.
. . . & as I'm anxious to make hay during the very short period when the sun shines in my brain . . .
I hope all of you are well, & I hope you won't find me a terribly disagreeable companion & bore when I come.
I'm saying this because I don't want him to believe that I'll be a sociable person.
This letter is probably frightfully stupid, but I can't write a more helpful one.
My mind's completely dead.
That's a selection. By the fourth or fifth disclaimer, the reader wants to reach through time to Rosro, grab the philosopher by his shirtfront and start shouting, "For God's sake, you're bloody Wittgenstein, knock it off already!"
I do this all the time.
In posts. In conversation. In e-mail. I'm pretty sure I told people my name when I introduced myself at Arisia, but I'm also pretty sure I told them I'd slept about three hours and was completely brain-dead. It's my own reflexive οὐ δεινὸς λέγειν. And I don't even have the excuse of being bloody Wittgenstein! If it's that annoying in one of the acknowledged minds of the twentieth century, I can only imagine how much it ticks people off in me. It doesn't matter that I feel as though my brain decamped years ago: I need to figure out how to stop telling everyone about it. It's either that or revolutionize philosophy.
In other news, I have a fever and sore throat (and have just this sentence begun to cough, which I consider completely unnecessary), but yesterday's mail brought my contributor's copy of the latest annual not-Not One of Us publication, Under Review, which contains both my poem "Theseid"—the one that starts with the kouros of Poseidon—and a review of A Mayse-Bikhl by Erik Amundsen that I should probably write a poem to thank him for, because it's possessed. "The King of Cats, the Queen of Wolves" has been nominated for a Rhysling Award.fleurdelis28 has uncovered evidence that I should have a hereditary feud with the Daily Mail. I have survived this week. I just wish TCM were showing something I could stare at. I suspect I'm going to read Transcendentalist biography instead.
1. I had to give up Victor Serge's Conquered City (1932) and a volume of the letters of Robert Graves in order to afford it, but I am seriously thinking about trying to go back for the latter. The letters to Siegfried Sassoon are interesting especially after reading Pat Barker's Regeneration (1991), but it's the one in which Graves worries about what his researches for The White Goddess are doing to his mental health that really charmed me: "I find myself making the Bards into Moon-men and the minstrels into Sun-men. Help!"
2. I had one disagreement with Malcolm and it was linguistic: "A characteristic remark that Wittgenstein would make when referring to someone who was notably generous or kind or honest was 'He is a human being!'—thus implying that most people fail even to be human." Well, yes, that's one reading. Around here, though, we just mean someone like that is a mensch.
While in Raven Used Books on Wednesday with
rushthatspeaks, I bought Norman Malcolm's Ludwig Wittgenstein: A Memoir (1958), the second edition with Wittgenstein's letters included.1 I'd never heard of Malcolm as a philosopher, but the memoir is affectionately and seriously written and unless they were popular anecdotes, looks like the source for several scenes in Jarman's film. He is trying both to honor and to demystify Wittgenstein (who had a hero-cult in his lifetime already) without whitewashing him; I think he succeeds, since Wittgenstein by Malcolm comes off as brilliant, depressing, electrifying, exhausting, a restlessly unhappy man, and a weirdly lovable one, which about fits what I've gathered from other sources, including Wittgenstein.2 I am afraid the letters are just incredibly endearing. There are fifty-seven of them, written over a period of eleven years (1940–1951, the last dated thirteen days before his death); they tend toward the rapid-fire jotting stream-of-consciousness and generally give the impression that if blogging had been available in Wittgenstein's lifetime, no one would ever have pried him off the computer. He loves the American detective magazines which he can't get during the war, so the Malcolms send him care packages of Street & Smith—he seems to have bounced hard off Sayers, but he spends several letters trying to track down further stories by Norbert Davis, author of Rendezvous with Fear. He has a thing about schmaltzy holiday cards. ("Tell Doney his Christmas card wasn't soupy enough.") He drinks a lot of instant coffee. He has to tell Malcolm he's sent him a surprise present—"I thought you mightn't have it & that it might interest you"—because he's afraid it got lost in the mail from London, which it didn't. He can never quite stop talking philosophy. And he cannot go three letters without starting to apologize for how useless and uninteresting he is:—As a matter of fact I've been feeling pretty rotten most of this summer. Partly because of bad health, partly because my brain was no d . . . good at all and I couldn't work. I'm feeling a bit better now. That's to say, my health is entirely all right & my mind seems a little more active. But God knows how long that will last.
My work is going damn slowly. I wish I could get a volume ready for publishing by next autumn; but I probably shan't. I'm a bloody bad worker!
Talking of philosophy: my book is gradually nearing its final form, & if you're a good boy & come to Cambridge I'll let you read it. It'll probably disappoint you. And the truth is: it's pretty lousy. (Not that I could improve on it essentially if I tried for another 100 years.)
But now my brain feels burnt out, as though only the four walls were left standing, & some charred remains!
I felt exceedingly depressed for many weeks, then fell ill & now I'm weak & completely dull . . . I shan't write more today, I'm much too dull.
. . . & as I'm anxious to make hay during the very short period when the sun shines in my brain . . .
I hope all of you are well, & I hope you won't find me a terribly disagreeable companion & bore when I come.
I'm saying this because I don't want him to believe that I'll be a sociable person.
This letter is probably frightfully stupid, but I can't write a more helpful one.
My mind's completely dead.
That's a selection. By the fourth or fifth disclaimer, the reader wants to reach through time to Rosro, grab the philosopher by his shirtfront and start shouting, "For God's sake, you're bloody Wittgenstein, knock it off already!"
I do this all the time.
In posts. In conversation. In e-mail. I'm pretty sure I told people my name when I introduced myself at Arisia, but I'm also pretty sure I told them I'd slept about three hours and was completely brain-dead. It's my own reflexive οὐ δεινὸς λέγειν. And I don't even have the excuse of being bloody Wittgenstein! If it's that annoying in one of the acknowledged minds of the twentieth century, I can only imagine how much it ticks people off in me. It doesn't matter that I feel as though my brain decamped years ago: I need to figure out how to stop telling everyone about it. It's either that or revolutionize philosophy.
In other news, I have a fever and sore throat (and have just this sentence begun to cough, which I consider completely unnecessary), but yesterday's mail brought my contributor's copy of the latest annual not-Not One of Us publication, Under Review, which contains both my poem "Theseid"—the one that starts with the kouros of Poseidon—and a review of A Mayse-Bikhl by Erik Amundsen that I should probably write a poem to thank him for, because it's possessed. "The King of Cats, the Queen of Wolves" has been nominated for a Rhysling Award.
fleurdelis28 has uncovered evidence that I should have a hereditary feud with the Daily Mail. I have survived this week. I just wish TCM were showing something I could stare at. I suspect I'm going to read Transcendentalist biography instead.1. I had to give up Victor Serge's Conquered City (1932) and a volume of the letters of Robert Graves in order to afford it, but I am seriously thinking about trying to go back for the latter. The letters to Siegfried Sassoon are interesting especially after reading Pat Barker's Regeneration (1991), but it's the one in which Graves worries about what his researches for The White Goddess are doing to his mental health that really charmed me: "I find myself making the Bards into Moon-men and the minstrels into Sun-men. Help!"
2. I had one disagreement with Malcolm and it was linguistic: "A characteristic remark that Wittgenstein would make when referring to someone who was notably generous or kind or honest was 'He is a human being!'—thus implying that most people fail even to be human." Well, yes, that's one reading. Around here, though, we just mean someone like that is a mensch.
no subject
c/o Mrs Kingston
Kilpatrick House
Red Cross
Wicklow
Eire
9.12.47
Dear Norman,
Thank you for two letters, or rather a letter & a Xmas card. I was very pleased to get them. I have only today moved into the above address. It's a little Guest House 2½ to 3 hours by bus from Dublin. It's not too bad & I hope I'll acclimatize. I'm the only guest. Of course, right now I still feel completely strange & uncomfortable. It's been pretty cold the last fortnight & looking for a place was very depressing. That I haven't worked a stroke for ages goes without saying. I'm looking forward to receiving the det. mags & the book. I, too, have sent you a very small present. I don't mean that yours is small. I hope you'll get it.—The idea of staying with you & Lee some day appeals to me very much. I have plenty of money, though. If I were as rich in other respects I'd be very happy!
It was very kind of Lee to write to me on the Xmas card. Give her & Ray all my best wishes. I wish you lots of luck & know you wish me the same. Both of us need it like Hell.*
Affectionately,
Ludwig
*And other people do too.
Kilpatrick House
Red Cross
Wicklow
Eire
15.3.48
Dear Norman,
Thanks for your letter which I got a few weeks ago. v. Wright wrote to me about his putting in for the professorship & asked me to write him a recommendation. I did, & it won't be the recommendation's fault if he doesn't get the job. I don't know at all what his chances are. I'm slightly doubtful because of his being another foreigner.—My work is progressing very slowly and painfully, but it is progressing. I wish I had more working power & didn't tire so very easily. But I have to take it as I find it—Your mags are wonderful. How people can read Mind if they could read Street & Smith beats me. If philosophy has anything to do with wisdom there's certainly not a grain of that in Mind, & quite often a grain in the detective stories.
That'll be all for today because my brain feels very stuffy indeed.
Good wishes!
Affectionately,
Ludwig
—I have not transcribed the later two or three letters in which he attempts to convince the Malcolms that he'd be more trouble than he's worth as a houseguest despite their very kind invitation to put him up for a couple of weeks, but I may. I need a Wittgenstein icon. Then I can worry over whether it should be actual Wittgenstein or Karl Johnson.
no subject
How would we feel about him if he went around beating himself in the chest and yelling "I'm a genius"? Neuroses are inevitable in a mind of that caliber, and personally I am much more fond of self-deprecation than of braggadocio.
no subject
You are very welcome. I'm glad!
Neuroses are inevitable in a mind of that caliber, and personally I am much more fond of self-deprecation than of braggadocio.
Absolutely.
Trinity College
Cambridge
16.11.44
My dear Malcolm,
Thanks for your letter, dated Nov. 12th, which arrived this morning. I was glad to get it. I thought you had almost forgotten me, or perhaps wished to forget me. Whenever I thought of you I couldn't help thinking of a particular incident which seemed to me very important. You & I were walking along the river towards the railway bridge & we had a heated discussion in which you made a remark about 'national character' that shocked me by it's primitiveness. I then thought: what is the use of studying philosophy if all that it does for you is enable you to talk with some plausibility about some abstruse questions of logic, etc., & if it does not improve your thinking about the important questions of everyday life, if it does not make you more conscientious than any . . . journalist in the use of the DANGEROUS phrases such people use for their own ends. You see, I know that it's difficult to think well about 'certainty,' 'probability,' 'perception,' etc. But it is, if possible, still more difficult to think, or try to think, really honestly about your life & other peoples lives. And the trouble is that thinking about these things is not thrilling, but often downright nasty. And when it's nasty then it's most important.—Let me stop preaching. What I wanted to say was this: I'ld very much like to see you again; but if we meet it would be wrong to avoid talking about serious non-philosophical things. Being timid I don't like clashes, & particularly not with people I like. But I'ld rather have a clash than mere superficial talk.—Well, I thought that when you gradually ceased writing to me it was because you felt that if we were to dig down deep enough we wouldn't be able to see eye to eye in very serious matters. Perhaps I was quite wrong. But anyway, if we live to see each other again let's not shirk digging. You can't think decently if you don't want to hurt yourself. I know all about it because I am a shirker.
I haven't seen Smythies for a long time, but shall see him in about 2 weeks when he'll come up from Oxford (where he has a job, not connected with the University) to read a paper to the Moral Science Club.—Read this letter in good spirit! Good luck!
Affectionately,
Ludwig Wittgenstein