Thoughts for the Day 2013

Thought for the day 31/12/2013

Memory lane. -‐-‐ My favourite Christmas present this year is a wall calendar of the Blaue Reiter group of early-‐twentieth-‐century expressionists. All the paintings are from the Lenbachhaus in Munich, the famous art gallery holding most of the group’s outstanding works. The calendar takes me back to the academic year 1996-‐97 when I lived in Munich as an Alexander-‐von-‐Humboldt fellow writing my book Psychological Knowledge. Whenever I had finished a chapter or paper, I rewarded myself with a day off and a visit to the Lenbachhaus. Gabriele Münter’s glass paintings were (and are) especially dear to me.


Proof. -‐-‐ My wife has always accused me of having a blind-‐spot (or two). I could not imagine this being true. Today her suspicion was confirmed by photographic evidence in the Ars Electronica Center in Linz. A morning well spent (for her anyway).


Rocked to reason. -‐-‐ The Schlossmuseum in Linz features a curious early form of marriage-‐therapy technology: an adult-‐size cradle from 1702. Fighting spouses were swaddled together and rocked until they promised to start getting on with each other peacefully.

Blast from the past. -‐-‐ The Schlossmuseum in Linz has a great section on twentieth-‐century household furniture and appliances. All stone-‐age and in need of explanation to my twenty-‐first-‐century children -‐-‐ frightfully familiar to me.

Heads above the clouds. -‐-‐ Every visitor to Linz is expected to take the tram up the 519-‐meter-‐high “Pöstlingberg”. (It’s the steepest “traction” train-‐ride in the world.) The views of Linz from the top of the Pöstlingberg are said to be spectacular. -‐-‐ Alas, as we set off, the fog started moving in. Half-‐way up the mountain we could not see further than ten meters. And we expected the worst for our arrival at the top. But a positive surprise awaited us: we ended up above the fog. While we could not see a thing of Linz itself, we enjoyed unexpected spectacular views of the enormous mass of bluish grey, and of the sunset in its midst.


Linz. -‐-‐ This is the first day of our long weekend in Austria’s third-‐largest city. Amongst its one-‐time inhabitants were Bruckner, Kepler, Wittgenstein, Eichmann and Hitler. -‐-‐ Humanity at its best and worst.


A gem from the philosopher in the family. -‐-‐ “Someone who carries the world on their shoulders is standing upside down.” (Not bad for a six-‐year old.)


My main achievements of Christmas Day 2013. -‐-‐ I listened without complaining to my eldest daughter’s favourite pop songs -‐-‐ Pink’s „Just give me a reason“ and „True love“ -‐-‐ about twenty times, and I stayed awake during my son’s favourite movie, „Ice Age 3“.


Season greetings from the ERC Relativism project. -‐-‐ Merry [whatever it is that you happen to be celebrating at this time of year – maybe, if you live in Toronto, just the return of electricity]! And a healthy, successful and happy 2014 (if you are into the Gregorian calendar, and if you care about health, success and happiness). -‐-‐ As the Austrians and Germans put is so well: "Ich wünsch Dir was."


The final push. -‐-‐ My concentration and energy always reach their peak just before a holiday. That is why I find it hard not to work on Christmas Eve -‐-‐ if only for a few hours.


Form and content. -‐-‐ It is hard to write clearly when you have nothing to say.


A problem and its solution. -‐-‐ I am slowly but surely reaching the point where I feel uncomfortable wishing others a “Merry Christmas”. I have moved too far away from the religion of my youth. Thank God, there is an alternative: Happy Yaldā!


Jumping to conclusions. -‐-‐ In a recent departmental meeting I defended the idea of a mere “marriage of convenience” between philosophy and education in our faculty. Perhaps I was a little too convincing: afterwards, some of my colleagues asked whether I was still going on holiday with my wife and children.


COR. -‐-‐ When my nine-‐year-‐old daughter declared herself a fan of this German “hard-‐core punk” and “trash metal” band, I went on the internet to check it out. I saw their photos and covers, and my heart began to sink. These guys looked as if they might well be playing “nazi punk”. To confirm my suspicion, I looked up the lyrics. But the more I read, the more I blushed with shame: how could I ever have suspected that our “little rebel” could be supporting anything but a band with left-‐wing and human-‐rights leanings?


Equality and expertise. -‐-‐ One of the many tricky issues in academic departmental politics is how to deal with differences -‐-‐ inequalities -‐-‐ in talent and achievement. There are no two ways about it: faculty do differ in productivity and standing. Ignore these differences, and the more successful colleagues will complain about a lack of recognition. Give the latter special privileges, and the others will feel like second-‐class citizens.


Emotional roller-‐coaster. -‐-‐ Marking exams for my freshmen course “Introduction to Theoretical Philosophy”. Some answers bring on painful doubts about my abilities as a teacher:

“How could I have explained things so badly?” Other scripts bring tears to my eyes: “What in the world have I done to deserve such brilliance in my class?”


From your Austrian correspondent. -‐-‐ The new government (of social democrats and conservatives) has abolished the department of science and research and has turned it into a subunit within the department of trade and industry. -‐-‐ Impressive honesty, for once.


Rhyme. -‐-‐ This weekend emesis was my nemesis.


Paranoia? -‐-‐ Why do I keep encountering junior applicants to the Austrian Science Foundation who believe that, in their proposals, they have to cite the work of selection panel members in order to have any chance of winning a grant?


Triple Disappointment. -‐-‐ The Austrian Academy of Science flatly refuses membership to the country’s outstanding philosophers. That’s bad enough. What is worse, no-‐one -‐-‐ not even these outstanding philosophers themselves -‐-‐ is furious about this practice. And the leading newspapers could not care less.


Alternate History, Alternate Present. -‐-‐ C. J. Sansom’s Dominion has been my daily companion for the past two weeks. (I have so little time for reading novels these days that I only progress by about twenty pages per night.) During boring administrative meetings I frequently drift into contemplating the main characters’ lives and fates.


Verbal "selfies". -‐-‐ That is what these thoughts are.


Inoculation against racial prejudice. -‐-‐ The first three black people I ever learnt about as a child were Muhammad Ali (then known as “Cassius Clay”), Nelson Mandela, and Bishop Tutu.


Nelson Mandela in memoriam. -‐-‐ There was something uncanny -‐-‐ indeed, almost uncomfortable -‐-‐ about his impeccable sense of justice, his limitless kindness and his ability to forgive.


Christmas-‐present negotiation. -‐-‐ She: “I like a scarf.” -‐-‐ Me: “What kind?” – She: “A nice one.”

-‐-‐ Me: “’Nice’ does not pick out a real property; it’s the projection of an attitude.” – She: “Alright then, get me a scarf with an attitude.”

Thought for the day 08/12/2013 Evil me. -‐-‐ On the motorway routes into the Austrian capital there are billboards saying "There are 1,7 million brains in Vienna." (I guess this is a message to potential investors.) One day I'll spray underneath: "And two million inhabitants ..." Thought for the day 07/12/2013

Must do better. -‐-‐ According to the latest Corruption Perception Index, Finland is third (just behind Denmark and New Zealand), Germany twelfth, the UK fourteenth, and Austria twenty-‐sixth. I have lived in all four countries for long periods of time; and my own experiences perfectly match this order.


“No prophet is accepted …” -‐-‐ I have lived in Austria for more than four years, but so far I have only given talks in one single university outside of Vienna: Salzburg. I am ecstatic about adding Graz to the list tomorrow.


The end of a poet. -‐-‐ While I am writing my “thoughts for the day”, my daughter plays her accordion less than a meter from my left ear. I protect myself from going totally deaf by wearing industrial-‐strength ear-‐muffs. But I cannot hear myself think.


Awakening. -‐-‐ I am fully convinced that Christmas means absolutely nothing to me. -‐-‐ And then the Christmas lights are turned on in “Der Graben” (Vienna’s most elegant shopping street).


Breaching experiment. -‐-‐ Even the politest of colleagues nowadays routinely place their mobile phones on the desk between us, keep staring at it during our chat, and repeatedly check their incoming text messages. One day I’ll organise for them to receive the following SMS: “If you do not look up this very moment, and give me an apologetic smile, I am out of here.”


On visiting “Matisse and the Fauves” at the Albertina. -‐-‐ André Derain impressed me most. His paintings of London made me realise how much I miss the place. I have always had a weak spot for the promenade along the Thames between the Houses of Parliament and the Tower, and Derain seems to have felt the same way.


The doodle of time. -‐-‐ My understanding of the history of music is marked by an idiosyncratic ordering: for instance, I learnt to appreciate Lachenmann before I ever encountered Schönberg.


Note to self. -‐-‐ In the future, find out the topic of a paper before you agree to comment on it. This increases your chances of being able to create the illusion of competence.


Challenges, challenges … -‐-‐ It is a strange experience to win a very big grant that -‐-‐ deep down inside -‐-‐ you never really expected to get. You have to shut down one future and start up another. Exciting and stressful in equal measure.


The Groucho Marx inside me. -‐-‐ Since 2007 eight ERC Advanced Grants have been awarded to philosophers. And two of these went to my department in Vienna. -‐-‐ Could we really be that good? Weren’t we just lucky? What’s wrong with us? Shouldn’t we refuse to take the money? And send it on to more famous places with less ERC success?


Equation. -‐-‐ What is love? Five "likes" and a "share".


“O gull! O dolt! As ignorant as dirt!” (Othello, Act 5, Scene 2) -‐-‐ A week ago I came across this wonderful Shakespeare quote in the text of a colleague. I have not been able to get it out of my head since. -‐-‐ If only I knew why …


Insult. -‐-‐ "I am an occasional drinker -‐-‐ you are an occasional thinker.”


Scoring. -‐-‐ Whenever Germany plays England in a football match, I am reminded of one fateful Sunday in 1966 when these two teams met in a World Cup Final. I watched the game at our neighbours’ house since my family did not have a TV set. The adults around me were deeply upset about the final result, and screamed and shouted endlessly about the “Wembley Goal”. -‐-‐ Six-‐year-‐old me did not care much about this issue. My thoughts were elsewhere: throughout the whole game, I got to sit next to Anne, the beautiful daughter of the house. And she even grabbed my hand during extra time.


Russian Dolls. -‐-‐ The more they open up, the smaller they get.


Mea culpa. -‐-‐ My children (aged six, nine and eleven) seem to be the only pupils in their respective schools who do not (yet) own mobile phones. My level of guilt is becoming almost unbearable.


“Music was my first love …” -‐-‐ Every evening around 7pm my daughters practise their instruments at opposite ends of our apartment: clarinet in the North, accordion in the South. Today’s programme consisted of German folksongs and Russian finger exercises – in parallel. I can’t wait for my son’s recorder to join the daily disharmony next year.


My greatest weakness. -‐-‐ I lose interest in philosophical topics once they reach the stage of “normal science”.


“The Special Role of Science in Liberal Democracy.” -‐-‐ When I was in my early teens, my family spent a couple of vacations in Glücksburg, a smallish German town not far from the Danish border. We spent most days driving North, exploring the island of Funen. I fell in love with the picturesque regional capital Odense, the home town of Hans Christian Andersen and Carl Nielsen. -‐-‐ Although I later lived more than ten years in northern Europe, I never made it back to Denmark. This makes me all the more excited about attending a conference in Copenhagen this week -‐-‐ and on a topic that is still fairly unexplored and fresh.


“Alle Jahre wieder …” -‐-‐ Today Vienna’s biggest and busiest Christmas market opened its gates, and we were there. Our children were excited. I found the mixture of smells -‐-‐ sausages, garlic, French fries, almonds, punch, chestnuts, lebkuchen, cigarette smoke -‐-‐ almost unbearable.


Double the fun. -‐-‐ When N.N. won her big grant, all of her colleagues were happy: one half because of all the research she would be able to do; the other half because she now would not take on a major administrative post in the department. -‐-‐ N.N. was ecstatic for both of these reasons.


Challenges ahead. -‐-‐ Winning a big grant reminds me of becoming a father: total strangers stop you on the corridor to congratulate and to wish you strength and patience for the many sleepless nights ahead.

Thought for the day 15/11/2013 Unity of Reason? -‐-‐ It never ceases to surprise me that, after my first-‐year undergraduate lectures on, say, the causal theory of reference or the rule-‐following paradox, the students re-‐invent at least two-‐third of the standard objections in the literature.

News for the day 14/11/2013

Breaking news: just got word from Brussels that I have been awarded an ERC senior award (of 2,5 million euros).


The city of Freud. -‐-‐ As far as I can tell, Viennese academics are much more prone to discredit each other by using psychoanalytic categories than their colleagues anywhere else.


Why I still feel like a foreigner in my cherished adopted country. -‐-‐ It is one of the many peculiarities of Austrian academic culture that administrators with self-‐declared leftish sympathies routinely invoke the importance of upholding tradition as an argument against democratic reform.


Kusch brut. -‐-‐ Seven days after we visited the museums in Klosterneuburg and Gugging; it is the art of the psychiatric patients that still haunts me.


A little full of myself. -‐-‐ When the number of my document downloads on Academia.edu approached 30,000 today, I could not help taking a look at where my readers come from. I was pleased as punch when I noticed that for the last two days someone from Chennai has been downloading most of my papers. After all, the current world chess championship, between Vishy Anand and Magnus Carlsen is taking place there. -‐-‐ I imagine my heroes relaxing after a tough match by reading up on relativism or genealogy.


“… the typical liberal illusion of a pluralism without antagonism.” (Mouffe). -‐-‐ Nowhere is this illusion more widespread than in academia.


A kindred soul. -‐-‐ A stone-‐throw from our house is a little art-‐shop. Every day its owner puts a “picture of the day” into the window: a postcard-‐size abstract drawing that he has produced the previous day. -‐-‐ One day I shall go in and tell him about my “thoughts”.


Times of production. -‐-‐ Some of my “thoughts” have month-‐long gestation periods, other are done in a minute. And by the end of the year I can no longer tell the one from the other.


The difficulty. -‐-‐ To find the alien in the ordinary -‐-‐ and not to get abducted by her.


Uncertainty. -‐-‐ Giving three and a half hours of undergraduate lectures on Monday afternoons, and three hours of master and doctorate-‐level seminars on Tuesday mornings is proving to be much more of an intellectual and physical challenge than I had imagined. -‐-‐ Am I too old for prolonged philosophical effort? Or am I too young and inexperienced for preparing myself appropriately?


Art expedition. -‐-‐ We regularly complain that we do not make it to museums often enough (at least not outside of our summer holiday season). But today -‐-‐ on a cold, windy and rainy Sunday in early November -‐-‐ there really wasn’t much else to do. And so we visited both the "Essl Museum" in Klosterneuburg and the "Gugging Museum" (in Gugging!). The most striking work in the former was “Curing acrobatics” (2008) by Virgilius Moldovan: a larger-‐than-‐life silicone sculpture of Josef Ratzinger carrying his predecessor Karol Wojtila on his back. I never felt as much sympathy for the real Benedikt as I did for his overloaded silicone replica. -‐-‐ The Gugging Museum specializes in the “art brut” of psychiatric patients. I was most taken by Johann Garber’s small ink-‐drawings; they remind me of Hieronymus Bosch (one of my all-‐time favourites).


Cineaste philosophy. -‐-‐ Traditionally, in order to get comments on their ideas, colleagues used to send out their written drafts. Over the last ten years, these drafts have increasingly been replaced by PowerPoint slides. And, most recently, I am directed to a Youtube address to watch the paper being delivered at a conference. -‐-‐ Many in the profession lament this development. Not me. I can’t get to the movies often enough.


Scary challenges. -‐-‐ In order to avoid stagnation and boredom, I occasionally accept invitations to speak on topics that I have not directly worked on before. Writing these talks is very “costly” in terms of time and nerves, though usually highly rewarding intellectually. -‐-‐ I am pondering one such invitation right now. The conference organizers want me to talk about the epistemology and ethics of the testimonies of genocide survivors. I have seldom felt so torn. On the one hand, I am not confident at all that I can produce an insightful paper on such a topic. On the other hand, I would feel morally reprehensible if I did not even try.


Musical spell. -‐-‐ I had no relationship to the accordion when my daughter started playing it a few weeks ago. But hearing her and – equally importantly: watching her – practise has been an ear-‐and-‐eye-‐opener. Today I even bought my first CD with accordion pieces. I am excited about the prospect of discovering a whole new dimension of sound.


The Law of Small Numbers. -‐-‐ I have about five colleagues and friends whose philosophical, historical or sociological judgements I blindly trust. I hope to die before them.


“The taste of bread.” -‐-‐ I first read this two-‐page 1951-‐short-‐story by Heinrich Böll in the late 1960s. It describes how a desperately starving man enters the kitchen of a hospital, asks a nun for food, and is given a loaf of stale bread. He immediately digs his teeth into it. And he experiences the contact between his lips and the loaf as a “dry tenderness”. -‐-‐ For more than forty years I have been unable to eat bread without thinking about this passage. (Today I re-‐read it for the first time.)


Useless imagination. -‐-‐ I am pretty good at anticipating what my opponents in academic-‐administrative confrontations are going to say. Alas, so far this ability has not helped my emotional balance. On the contrary, it has only doubled my annoyance: when I imagine the encounter, and when it actually happens.


“The Sceptic.” -‐-‐ It is surprising that, in Western art, we do not have a string of paintings of this important cultural character.


Go figure. -‐-‐ Even though I have now been four years in an Austrian university, I still haven’t got used to the students’ practice of applauding after every single undergraduate lecture. And I don’t quite know how to respond: Bow? Blush? Return the applause? Give them an encore? Try harder the following week?


Virtue of composition. -‐-‐ When it comes to writing administrative documents, few academics find the golden mean between verbal diarrhea and verbal constipation.


Happy Eleventh Birthday, Annabelle! – When I recall your day of birth, the first thing that comes to my mind are not the 48 hours of labour; the anxious waiting around in maternity wards; the concern – nay: Angst! – for you and Sarah during the actual delivery; or my inability, in the immediate aftermath of the event, to get a single word out on the phone to our parents. None of that. The first thing I remember is how you were handed to me in a towel, one eye open, one eye shut, and looked straight at me. “Love at first sight”, I thought, “... all over again.” – And so it was.


Exculpation. -‐-‐ Aphorisms do not allow for even-‐handed considerations or careful qualifications. (Remember this when reading Wittgenstein's metaphilosophical remarks.)


“The Kusch-‐Quiz”. -‐-‐ Use Wikipedia entries found with the “SPECIAL:RANDOM” function to

generate questions of the form: “What do you know about a [result of SPECIAL:RAN-‐ DOM search]?” Whoever manages a half-‐decent answer gets a point. -‐-‐ You can even play this as a solitaire game: You get a point if you manage to answer one out of every ten.


What it takes. -‐-‐ I can’t help smiling when students tell me anxiously about their doubts concerning their talent for doing philosophy. -‐-‐ There is no good philosophy without such doubts.


Birthday weekend. -‐-‐ My birthday fell on a Saturday and thus I had to work until late afternoon preparing my teaching and working on a paper. For my epistemology seminar I read Paul Horwich’s *Wittgenstein’s Metaphilosophy* and then watched the recent debate between him and Timothy Williamson on Youtube. Alas, Tim had the (much) better arguments. I recovered from the disappointment over a lovely dinner with Sarah at *Due Fratelli* in the centre of Vienna. -‐-‐ The celebrations continued on Sunday with a family lunch in our favourite vegan restaurant in Großmugl, a scenic village in the countryside north of Vienna. The weather report had promised the worst but we were treated to blue skies and temperatures close to 20 C°. -‐-‐ I won’t list my presents but I am especially looking forward to finally watching Margarethe von Trotta’s movie “Hannah Arendt”. (Incidentally, Horwich classifies "Ahrendt" [sic!] as a “T-‐philosopher” about truth, alongside Kripke and Tarski: hilarious!) -‐-‐ I am ready for my fifty-‐fifth year.


Cultural reflex. -‐-‐ The number of times we have negotiated a vegan meal with Italian waiters -‐-‐ only for them to later bring us a little bowl of parmesan for our minestrone ...


An algorithm for "thoughts". -‐-‐ Ironicize your shortcomings ... there is no end.


On reading Horwich on “T-‐philosophy”. -‐-‐ How could Wittgenstein possibly accept lumping together ninety percent of analytic philosophy into one simple seven-‐point scheme? Is he not the man who chose Shakespeare’s “I’ll teach you differences” as his motto?


Tired. -‐-‐ Tired of producing thoughts for the day, and tired of thinking, period. -‐-‐ Fortunately, the antibiotics cure is finally coming to an end at lunchtime.


A six-‐year-‐old’s calibration. -‐-‐ Tell my son that some event will take X minutes, or X hours, and he invariable replies with the question: “And how long is that?”


Autobiographical snippet. -‐-‐ It seems only fair to suffer from long-‐term toothache when you do not ever visit the dentist. But to have pain in one and the same tooth for no less than five years -‐-‐ during which it has been treated every 2 months -‐-‐ seems a little absurd.


What Facebook teaches. -‐-‐ The value of αὐτάρκεια.


Hypnos and Logos. -‐-‐ I get my best ideas when a child sleeps next to my desk.


Precocious insight. -‐-‐ Evening conversation with my six-‐year old. He:"Have you done your 'Thought for the Day' yet?" Me: "No, I am too tired." He: "Shall I help you with it?" Me: "Sure, thanks." He: "Think of two things that do not fit together." Me: "Square and round." He: "I don't like it. Let's take this one: 'Petrol that breathes". Me: "Yes, and now what?" He: "You always say that an aphorism needs a surprise. And petrol that breathes is surprising." Me: "It certainly is." He: "Add a title and a few more words, and you are done. And then you can tell me a story about knights and castles."


Controversial. -‐-‐ U.S. American academics have a stronger-‐than-‐average appetite for military metaphors. Just think of their peculiar need to fight in intellectual wars: e.g. the “Culture Wars”, the “Science Wars”, or the “Evolution Wars”. Some authors even seem to presume that their ideas aren’t really important unless there is a “war” around them. And so they launch the “war” themselves. (Think of Burawoy’s introduction of “Public Sociology Wars” to label the discussion around his ideas.) I bet it is just a question of time before we have the “Experimental Philosophy Wars” or the “Scientific Pluralism Wars”. -‐-‐ The predilection of a culture for a given set of metaphors is often difficult to explain. But not always: think of the many metaphors in the Spanish language that come from bullfighting. -‐-‐ Hypothesis: Could the U.S. academia’s fondness for military language have anything to do with the fact that for 216 out of her 237 years of existence the U.S. has been at war?


A variation on Seinfeld's Pop-‐Tart joke. -‐-‐ Some philosophical thoughts "can never go stale 'cause they were never fresh."


Distinction. -‐-‐ “Alright”, I said to the waiter, “I admit ordering spaghetti ‘al dente’ -‐-‐ but isn’t there a difference between ‘pasta al dente’ and ‘pasta al dentista’?”


Time is up. -‐-‐ Tomorrow term will start with a bang: six hours of begging for ten studentships in History and Philosophy of Science at the Austrian Science Foundation, followed by 120 minutes of non-‐stop lecturing about Gettier & co. to 500 first-‐year students. Today was the

calm before the storm. We went shopping in Bratislava and walked through fields of dead sunflowers in Kittsee. -‐-‐ Summer is beginning to be a distant memory.


Omnis determinatio est negatio. -‐-‐ Tell me the five philosophers whose views you find most important to contest, and I'll tell you who you are.


October. -‐-‐ This is the best time of the year for early evening walks across Vienna city centre. On a clear day, we set off around 5:30pm in bright sunshine; en route we get the full spectrum of sunset-‐colours bouncing off palaces and churches; and we return home in the dark, dazzled by the city lights. (“Kitsch” says my censor -‐-‐ but just this once I am sticking to my guns.)


The weights of Democles. -‐-‐ These days I get my best ideas in the gym: my mind never races as fast as when I have 160 pounds dangling over my head.


Insanity Defense. -‐-‐ One-‐hour sunset-‐walk with my children along the Danube Canal. Topics of conversation were of the usual variety: the distinction between a CD and a vinyl record; whether we all see the world in the same way; the natural enemies of rats, elephants and bacteria; who gets to sing a rap song after dinner; does one wear gloves in 5 degrees Celsius; who needs a mobile phone and when; how many people can come to whose birthday party; the life and evil deeds of ghost Klemenzia Klabuster von Klippenstein; the adventures of Klosterfrau Melissengeist. -‐-‐ And you are surprised that my Thoughts for the Day, often written just after our walks, are sometimes a little confusing or cryptic?


Mouth wide shut. -‐-‐ “But if we did not eat eggs, then billions of poultry would never have lived.” -‐-‐ “I am an anti-‐natalist when it comes to battery chickens.”


Theological analogy. -‐-‐ The Achilles' Heel of progressive thought is its deism. The strength of conservative thought is its belief in continuous creation. -‐-‐ Progressives must (at least sometimes) learn from conservatives.


Walking home in the dark after eight hours of administrative meetings. -‐-‐ The illusion of deserving every cent of my salary is never stronger than on a day like this.


First and last from the past. -‐-‐ Searching through my old computer files, I came across some

“animal poems” that I wrote for our children in Cambridge in 2007. Re-‐reading them made me cringe. Here is the best of a bad lot (“Fridolin” is my son’s name):

Fridolin

A little chimp called “Fridolin” Was trained to play the violin. He fiddled in a circus tent. He never earned a single cent. His family lived in a zoo Where they had nothing much to do. They often were in desperate mood. They rarely ever liked their food. If only Fridolin were free To swing himself from tree to tree Not behind bars, not in a tent, But on a distant continent. As my old friend Carole put it so well: “Martin, don’t give up the day job quite yet …” Thought for the day 30/09/2013

Stages of writing. -‐-‐ (1) Overconfidence: “I have never worked on this topic. But it’s fascinating. Sure I can do it. And I have a great idea. I’ll promise to do a presentation on it.” (2) Sobering: “A lot has been done already ...” (3) Frustration: “Why did I offer to do this topic? I’ll never get anything original done!” (4) Depression: “Loser.” (5) Inkling of Hope: “There is this small aspect of the general theme. Maybe, just maybe, I could do something with it.” (6) Recovery: “’Small aspect?’ Who said anything of a ‘small’ aspect?” (7) Stage fright: “Done my best; but will they like it?” (8) Survival: “This beer tastes so good. And expert X said she really liked my paper.” (9) Overconfidence: “Given how well this went, let’s go for something a little more risky next time …”


Autobiographical splinter. -‐-‐ My mother was a librarian obsessing about “Bildung” and scathing literary criticism. Chapters from Marcel Reich-‐Ranicki’s *Lauter Verrisse* (Nothing but Scorchers) were the desserts at our dinners. My father was a schoolteacher, semi-‐politician and hobby theologian. But first and foremost he was a passionate debater: he contradicted everyone on everything. -‐-‐ I never had a chance but to become what I am.


Those obscure objects of desire. -‐-‐ Visits on our webpages, "likes" for our Facebook posts, jealous looks in the gym, black-‐eyed beans ... (I could go on and on.)


“Rossau Barracks”. -‐-‐ It is always a special moment for my six-‐year-‐old son when, on our

walks along the Danube Canal, we suddenly see “the castle” appear in the distance. He imagines it as a place where noble knights once engaged in jousting, watched over by a beautiful queen and a handsome king. -‐-‐ Soon I will have to tell him the truth. His “castle” are barracks built in the aftermath of the 1849 revolution. Their purpose was not to defend Vienna against foreign invaders; their purpose was to protect the emperor from the workers of the city. During World War One the building served as an internment camp for foreigners; during the Nazi period the Gestapo tortured Jews and political prisoners there. Today the barracks house the police and “Austrian Ministry of Defence and Sport”. The western corner of the compound is often cordoned off by riot police. Their task is to control protests against the deportation of rejected asylum-‐seekers. The centre holding the latter is right next to the barracks.


Property right. -‐-‐ Nowadays every discipline has its champions of "going public": Borofsky calls for "public anthropology", Chu for "public psychology", Burawoy for "public sociology", and Galston for "public philosophy". ("Public history" has been around since the 1970s.) I herewith patent the label "public privatology" for my blog.


Mind the gaps. -‐-‐ I am now the proud owner of three pairs of glasses: one pair covers distances beyond 120cm ("the lecturing glasses"); another distances 70 to 85 cm (“the computer glasses”), and a third distances around 45cm (“the reading glasses”). Do not stand in the gaps – or else you will be invisible to me.


Dürnstein. -‐-‐ Today was our first Autumn Sunday outing -‐-‐ the first of many we hope (though with me lecturing 3.5 hours on Mondays from October to December, who knows). We went to a little town in the “Wachau”, a beautiful area of hills and vineyards along the Danube, 70 km north-‐west of Vienna. When we entered the gate of the old city, we felt back on holidays: we were surrounded by English, French and Hungarian tourists and many vendors selling local wine and marmalade. We walked up to the ruins of a castle where Richard the Lionheart was once incarcerated; explored a (very) baroque monastery; and walked along the Danube, waving at every riverboat. The sun never abandoned us. And to top it all, while driving there I outlined my next paper (on the functions of the social sciences in liberal democracy) to my wife, and she approved. -‐-‐ Bring on the new week.


Surprising convergence. -‐-‐ Until last week I thought the political theory of Chantal Mouffe unworthy of serious attention. After all, I had learnt from her critics long ago that her theory of “agonistic liberal pluralist democracy” is based, in good part, on insights drawn from Carl Schmitt, the notorious critic of liberalism and parliamentary democracy. I became curious however when I read, a few days ago, that she also draws on Wittgenstein’s *On Certainty*. And so today I finally sat down with her *The Democratic Paradox*. Truth be told, I do not like her terminological potpourri drawn from a dozen thinkers (from Derrida to Schmitt, Marx to Wittgenstein). But, looking past the jargon, I found myself agreeing with her criticism of Rawls’ political liberalism, with her insistence that politics cannot be reduced to ethics, and with her emphasis on contestation and emotion as ineradicable features of

political life. What is more, her central lines of thought are almost indistinguishable from those of my favourite living political philosopher: Raymond Geuss. And Schmitt? It turns out that the ideas she excavates from Schmitt are exactly the “political-‐realist” lessons that Geuss extracts from Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov -‐-‐ a.k.a. Lenin.

hought for the day 22/09/2013

Political lessons. -‐-‐ In 1977 I briefly worked as an intern in Paul Sarbanes’ office during his first term (of many) in the US Senate. While I was there, Willy Brandt visited Washington, and, as a member of the Foreign Relations Committee, Sarbanes had to meet him. This caused great concern in the office: Sarbanes knew very little about Continental Europe, Germany’s recent history, or Brandt’s political career. For a couple of days, his staffers deliberated back and forth about what to do, but no easy solution emerged. Finally Sarbanes’ right-‐hand man cut through the Gordian know: Call in the seventeen-‐year-‐old German from the mail-‐room and ask him to prepare a lecture. I did. I even took questions afterwards. And I walked away with the strong belief that I could have told them anything. -‐-‐ Bob Woodward’s 1987 book *Veil: The Secret Wars of the CIA 1981-‐1987* gives a fascinating account of the covert wars waged by the US in Central America, Iran and Libya. The most memorable part of the book tells the story of how US policies towards Libya were shaped by one memorandum on Gaddafi’s character written by a psychoanalyst of dubious credentials. He had never met the Libyan leader in person, and based his investigation exclusively on a small number of reports in the US press. -‐-‐ My trust in the knowledge base of US foreign policy has never recovered.


“A rare talent for avoiding all that can complicate or confuse the conflict.” (Euwe on Capablanca) -‐-‐ When I was (very) young, the chess players I most admired were the nineteenth-‐century “romantics” like Adolf Anderssen or Paul Murphy. Key elements of their style were aggressive openings, haphazard development, complicated positions, sacrifices, and all-‐out kingside attacks. Nowadays I most value the “positional style” of Raul Capablanca or Magnus Carlsen: the openings are calm; the development is organic; positions are kept simple; minute advantages are slowly amassed; and the inevitable victory materializes in a long technical endgame. -‐-‐ Similarities with my preferences regarding argumentative styles in philosophy are coincidental but real.


Double Jeopardy. -‐-‐ As I become more “senior”, I am expected to spend increasing amounts of time evaluating colleagues in my field: applicants for postdocs, grants, fellowships, promotions and chairs. I accept this work as part of my professional duties. But there are aspects of this appraisals bonanza that I find disconcerting. I particularly feel uncomfortable about assessing the same people over and over again: some even ten times in as many years (not counting refereeing their journal submissions). Don’t they deserve better -‐-‐ at least a wider variety of judges?


Inspiration. -‐-‐ Sometimes too early; often too late; rarely when I need it most.


“Political clowns”. -‐-‐ As far as policies as concerned, I would much rather see Germany governed by a “red-‐green” than by the current “black-‐yellow” coalition. But I have my doubts about the leadership of the Social Democrats and the Greens: unable to capitalize on Merkel’s substantive weaknesses on the economic, foreign-‐policy and civil-‐liberties front, they have instead concentrated on producing one gaffe after another. SPD-‐party leader Peer Steinbrück’s recent “Up yours!” gesture sums it up nicely.


Habermas. -‐-‐ In preparation for my next paper, I spent the day studying KNOWLEDGE AND HUMAN INTERESTS. It’s been twenty-‐five years since my last reading of the book. I was struck by how readable I found the work, and by how many details I still remember. On more than one occasion, his more striking claims or phrases popped up in my mind a page or two before their actual location (e.g.“…außerhalb der Kritik bleibt der Philosophie kein Recht.” “Philosophy is justifiable only as a form of criticism.”). I am even more surprised by the timeliness of some of his analyses and criticisms. -‐-‐ But not to worry: I won’t go back to my worship of the mid-‐80s. Those were the days when I thought of him as the completion of philosophy, and when, in every philosophical argument, I accused my interlocutors of “performative contradictions” or “neo-‐conservatism”.


Travel diary. -‐-‐ On the train from Salzburg back to Vienna on a sunny Sunday morning. My head brimming with philosophical arguments inflicted upon me at a conference in the city of music. Ready to whistle some Mozart tunes. Not sure whether the hoodies across the aisle will appreciate the experience.


Surprise! -‐-‐ I am doing it again. I am heading for a (graduate) "Conference for Young Analytic Philosophers" to tell them about analysis -‐-‐ in chemistry.


Kirchberg. -‐-‐ In many European countries conference participants are sometimes housed in monastaries. I have no objections; after all, such places offer cheap bed-‐and-‐breakfast deals. And yet, on one occasion, I had a strong reaction. The conference was situated about an hour from my home. When it was time to go to sleep, I found myself alone in a claustral cell with five religious books, four crucifixes, three statues of saints, two prayer kneeling benches, and one holy-‐water dispenser. By midnight I could stand it no more. I jumped into my car; drove back to Vienna; slept in my own bed; got up at 7; raced back to my cell, and attended the nuns' breakfast as if nothing had happened.


Stagnation. -‐-‐ “Integrated History and Philosophy of Science” and “Philosophy of Science in Practice” constitute no progress at all if they are just another excuse for philosophers to ignore the lessons of the Sociology of Scientific Knowledge.


Attractions of Vienna. -‐-‐ On our hour-‐long evening stroll past the university my children and I ran into two large contingents of riot police. The first surrounded a pub where football fans were boozing hard in preparation of tonight’s football match between Austria and Ireland. The second protected a dozen Syrians waving red flags and large kitsch photos of Bashar al-‐Assad. -‐-‐ It takes all kinds to make an educational walk.


The two voices in my head. -‐-‐ “You should blog and post about political issues. After all, you feel so strongly about them.” -‐-‐ “However strong you feel, don’t forget that your views are utterly unoriginal. And surely you wouldn’t want to just endlessly amplify the same handful of familiar pundits?”


Philosophical temptations. -‐-‐ One reason why I enjoy writing introductory lecture courses (e.g. on “theoretical philosophy”) is that it allows me to spend extended time periods with texts and authors unrelated to my own current work. In this vein, I have just studied Parfit vs. Korsgaard on personal identity, and Plantinga vs. Mackie on the ontological argument. -‐-‐ Makes me wish for a perfect being allowing my (?) future self the autonomous decision to work on these issues.


“Love thy neighbours …” – This is the main campaign slogan of the Austrian far-‐right “Freedom [sic!] Party” in the upcoming general election. The slogan is “completed” with a quotation from the party leader, Heinz-‐Christian Strache: “For me these (neighbours) are our Austrians.” -‐-‐ I am not a religious believer of any kind, but even I am furious about this cynical inversion of Jesus’ exhortation.


"I know, I know ..." -‐-‐ Blogging and posting frequently about my (family) life and work comes at a price: when I meet my Facebook friends and blog readers in person, I have got no material left for small talk. And thus I either have to remain silent or launch straight into a philosophical argument.


Self-‐discovery. -‐-‐ On and off, over recent weeks I have been writing a twenty-‐hour lecture course entitled “Introduction to theoretical philosophy”. Standing back from the details and looking over the course as a whole, I am struck by how central Saul Kripke has ended up being. A third of the course is about the one-‐time Wunderkind of analytic philosophy. This puts Kripke clearly ahead of the runners-‐up Hume, Lewis and Wittgenstein.


Fakir's seat. -‐-‐ I really would enjoy the two-‐hour parents evenings in primary school if it weren’t for the fact that they make me sit on my child’s 13’’ low chair. My mind stops working when my back is in an acute angle and my knees dig into my armpits. (And how undignified I must look!)


The split in my mind. -‐-‐ It is commonly assumed that an uncompromising negative assessment of a philosophical argument must be rooted in personal hostility. Not so when I am the critic. I would feel uneasy attacking the views of people I dislike: I would distrust my philosophical judgement in such cases.


Father and son. -‐-‐ Walking with my boy to his first-‐ever school lesson this morning I had more butterflies in my stomach than when I delivered a risky keynote lecture to an auditorium of (at least initially) unsympathetic philosophers last Saturday.


"Wien, Wien nur Du allein ..." -‐-‐ After two weeks of wonderful holidays in Italy and one week of a stimulating yet exhausting conference in Helsinki, I much look forward to returning to the lovely and familiar madness of raising three “hyperlively” children in Vienna -‐-‐ especially since on Monday the eldest starts “Gynmasium” and the youngest begins primary school.


Pride and property. -‐-‐ From time to time, I see my PhD students deliver stellar talks. When that happens, my first emotional response is to be happy for them. My second spontaneous reaction is pride in the fact that “my” supervisee did so well. But this feeling of pride is then invariably followed by a bout of self-‐criticism: Isn’t it unduly proprietorial to feel pride with respect to a student’s achievement? After all, neither the student nor her performance are in any obvious sense “mine”. Whatever I might have contributed, it was my duty to contribute. And would I not be diminishing the student’s performance if I were to regard my own input as substantive? (Or should my title have been "Pride and the neurotic professor"?)


Life-‐ban from philosophy conferences. -‐-‐ This is the punishment I suggest imposing on the following, all too common, behaviour. The scene is the Q&A session after a talk. The chair says: “Okay, we have five minutes left, and three questions. Please keep your questions brief so that we might fit all three in.” The first person on the list begins. He -‐-‐ yes indeed, it invariable is a male member of our species -‐-‐ talks. And talks. And talks. He needs three minutes to warm up. And another three to give a first rough indication of what bothers him. He uses two more minutes to offer four synonymous formulations of his question. He concludes by saying: “Sorry for going on a bit, but I thought it was really important to raise this issue.” (This belief is false, absolutely false.) Then time is up.


Between the devil and the deep blue final session. -‐-‐ There are two tough time-‐slots at conferences. If you are the first speaker, then the audience is still excited, awake, and eager to pick a fight. And you will have to face more objections at every caffee break. If you are the last speaker, then you have to listen to endless apologies by people who will leave before you are on; those present are sitting on their suitcases; and there is no time, after your talk,

for anyone to tell you how much they liked your paper.


Re-‐distribution. -‐-‐ You need to have a lot of experience to be able to clearly defend a philosophical thesis in twenty minutes. That is why younger colleagues should have more, and old hands have less, time to deliver their conference papers.


"Magic mirror in my hand, what's controversial in this land?" -‐-‐ At recent philosophy-‐of-‐science conferences I have been attacked more often for my veganism than challenged over my relativism. Is this because relativism is becoming an acceptable view? Or is this because veganism is felt to be an even bigger threat?


The philosophical butterfly. -‐-‐ Helsinki under blue skies and in 25 degrees: perfect. (Eat your hearts out Bologna and Vienna.)


From Bologna to Helsinki. -‐-‐ I cannot live without heat: that is why I am travelling from the heat of the Italian summer straight to a philosophy-‐of-‐science conference in Finland. I repeatedly broke out in a sweat preparing my plenary talk on caloric and phlogiston, on pluralism and the sociology of scientific knowledge. Such topics invariably trigger heated exchanges. And in case my ideas get a cold reception, there is always hot fashion to make up for it: my wife and daughters have bought me a new blazer for the occasion -‐-‐ they think it looks cool.


Moore and me. -‐-‐ Saying good-‐bye to my wife before setting off to a conference, I am always reminded of the following dialogue between G.E. Moore and his wife (as reported by Norman Malcolm): “The address that Moore delivered to the British Academy, entitled ‘Proof of an External World,’ caused him a great deal of torment in its preparation. He worked hard at it, but the concluding portion displeased him, and he could not get it right as the time approached for his appearance before the Academy. On the day of the lecture he was still distressed about the ending of the paper. As he was about to leave the house to take the train to London, Mrs. Moore said, in order to comfort him, ‘Cheer up! I’m sure they will like it.’ To which Moore made this emphatic reply: ‘If they do, they’ll be wrong!’” -‐-‐ Indeed.


My continental identity. -‐-‐ In just eight hours of scenic driving I can get from Bologna to Vienna. It is this proximity of cultural centres that defines Europe for me and that makes me thrilled to live in this part of the world.


Our final day in Bologna. -‐-‐ We spent the day saying “good bye” to some of our favourite corners and ice-‐cream parlours, buying memorabilia (e.g. posters of Morandi paintings), eating a final meal in town and visiting the Pinacoteca Nazionale di Bologna. It is not easy to get six-‐to-‐ten-‐(to-‐fifty-‐three)-‐year-‐olds excited about 13th to 18th century altarpieces, but we got through the exhibition with lively discussions about our respective favourites (and little naps along the way). -‐-‐ There is an element of truth in the James-‐Lange theory of emotions. We all started the day feeling sentimental and melancholic about our impending departure. To make sure no-‐one would go from melancholic to whiny, I repeated things like “no worries, the next holiday is just 12 months away”, or “hey, we are returning to a wonderful place”, or “come on, school is fun, university it great, NGO work is brilliant”. I am not sure how much these phrases improved the states of mind of my loved ones -‐-‐ but I eventually began to believe these mantras, and to feel good about my fate.


A day in Bologna. -‐-‐ We have stopped our city-‐hopping, and today we finally made it to the Museo di Palazzo Poggi. We did not know where to look first: to the magnificent design of the building (constructed in the 1550s), to the frescoes by Tibaldi, or to the breath-‐taking collections in natural history, in anatomy and obstetrics, in physics and chemistry, in geography, in military architecture and in sailing ships. The exhibits date from the 17th and 18th centuries. Our attention was most firmly captured by the anatomical wax models, especially the “Venerina” by Clemente Michelangelo [!!] Sosini (1754-‐1814). This is a model of a young pregnant woman whose trunk is open. The aesthetic and sensual qualities of the work could and should fill volumes of gender studies. And even our children quickly realised that the Venerina defies any simplistic boundary-‐drawing between art and science. Strange but true: I had to travel all the way to Bologna to find out that Vienna’s Josephinum holds more than 1,100 of Sosini’s masterpieces. This makes the return to our “normal life” just a little bit easier.


A day in Firenze. -‐-‐ We knew from the start that we would not even scratch the surface: standing in line for more than an hour to buy museum or cathedral tickets just isn’t an option when travelling with young children. For much of the day we "flaneured" across the old town, admiring piazzas and bridges, and enjoying the exteriors of churches and palazzos. We went inside only two places. In the Basilica di Santa Croce we visited the graves of Michelangelo, Machiavelli and Galileo; a great occasion for an HPS-‐father to let off some lecturing steam. The grand emancipation-‐time Tempio Maggiore Israelitico di Firenze impresses with its spectacular blend of Arabesque and renaissance-‐revival architecture and decorations. The kosher vegetarian coffee shop next door treated some of us to delicious vegan apple-‐tart, and some others to tasty hummus. I ended up consuming both in equal measure and in parallel: I am the “left-‐overs guy” in the family. -‐-‐ Coincidentia oppositorum.


A day in Reggio Emilia and Bologna. -‐-‐ Reggio Emilia was a spontaneous pick off the beaten tourist track. Since the *Museo del Tricolore* had peculiar opening hours (9-‐12am, and 9-‐12pm), we decided to remain ignorant about the history of the Italian flag. And there were enough other attractions anyway. It was market day and every square in town was filled with numerous stands and hundreds of colourfully dressed people of many ethnic backgrounds: Italian, Indian, Pakistani, Chinese and African. We have not encountered a

similar multicultural scene elsewhere in Italy. -‐-‐ We also visited the new fast-‐speed-‐train railway station, designed by the Spanish architect Santiago Calatrava. (Some years ago we admired his *Ciutat de les Arts i les Ciències* in Valencia. And for reasons that escape me, I have a weak spot for beautiful train-‐stations. Maybe it is an affliction I picked up in Helsinki.) -‐-‐ We ended the day with a brisk walk up the steep “Portico di San Luca” in Bologna, a 3.5 km roofed arcade built in the 17th and 18th centuries. By the time we reached the sanctuary on top of the “Monte della Guardia”, they had just closed the gate. It was amusing to see that a structure built to protect religious processions now serves primarily as a gym for sportive Bolognese. – There is no common theme running through the day. Oh well, we live in postmodern times, don’t we?


Rite de passage. -‐-‐ The first time I felt like an adult was sometime in the mid-‐1960s when my family spent a summer holiday in Northern Italy, and we visited Milan for a day. When we tried to see the cathedral, my parents and sister were denied entry because their knees and shoulders were showing. Only I, the seven-‐year-‐old junior, was allowed in. At first my parents hesitated to let me go into the church on my own, but my begging ultimately proved successful. Once inside, I took my time: I followed different tourist guides; climbed up and down stairs; lit candles wherever I could; circled altars … and felt like a hero. -‐-‐ Today, forty-‐seven years later, I was back in Milan cathedral, now with my wife and children, remembering the never-‐forgotten triumph. To make history repeat itself, I offered my daughters the exact same chance to discover their adulthood. The nine-‐year-‐old jumped at the opportunity. She felt great, I felt great: now there is bonding for you.


A day in Comacchio and Porto Garibaldi. -‐-‐ At last we made it to the coast. Comacchio is the central town in the Po delta. Its mix of canals and colourful small houses reminded us less of other Italian places than of Haarlem or Delft (which is all for the best since Holland is always the first runner-‐up when we decide where to spend our summer holidays). The “inevitable” museum visit took us to the Museo della Nave Romana which exhibits a first century Roman cargo ship discovered only in 1981. -‐-‐ We have been playing “spot the Garibaldi statues” on our walks around towns and cities for the last week, but we saw none in the port named after the man. We did not let this shortcoming prevent us from swimming and sunbathing right there and then. Fate gave us deckchairs next to the beach disco and thus we ended the day miming a wild dance to the Gipsy Kings’ “Volare, oh oh -‐-‐ cantare, oh oh oh oh …” -‐-‐ Over and out.


A day in Parma. -‐-‐ Today had been earmarked as the beach-‐bonanza in Rimini. We changed plans when we saw that the rest of Europe was heading in the same direction. Parma has plenty of beautiful and noteworthy palazzos, churches and parks to offer. And yet, for us its strongest suit was the almost total absence of foreign visitors. This gave us a chance to keyhole, and even be part of, ordinary Italian life, rather than be tied to the artificial, exploitative and controlled environment of tourism. (The children learnt new things, too. Our first-‐born daughter grasped how to calculate with decimals. Our second-‐born daughter worked out that bikers are sexist: women invariably sit on the backseat. And, studying paintings in the cathedral, our son discovered that Jesus and his fishermen friends can’t have been vegans. He was not pleased.)


A day in Pisa and Lucca. -‐-‐ The drive through the hills of the Tuscany was spectacular: we’ll never forget the sublime light in the narrow, curvy tunnels. -‐-‐ Pisa lives off the collapse-‐waiting-‐to-‐happen; for 18 euros you can climb up and help speed up the demolition. -‐-‐ Lucca is a gem: the Roman amphitheatre, the city walls, the tower … the only drawback were the (other) tourists. -‐-‐ But for all the good food, charming sights and challenging driving in Tuscany, coming home to Reggio Emilia felt good: seems like we all have become true Bolognese already.


On visiting the Museo arte civile in Modena. -‐-‐ The ratio of guns to scientific instruments in this impressive museum was roughly twenty to one. It makes you wonder: Is that because so many more guns than scientific instruments were produced in the first place? Is that because guns attract more collectors? Is that because curators think guns deserve more attention from tourists or school classes? Or all of the above? Anyway, I worked hard to counter the effect of the numbers on my children -‐-‐ with mixed success. (And I got so absorbed by the small but intriguing collection of metrological standards and early batteries that I had my first serious relapse into thinking about my academic work. … Just as I thought I had kicked the habit.)


Happy sixth birthday, son. -‐-‐ Whenever we celebrate this occasion, your mother and I remember the moment when, during the final stages of delivery, the midwife said sotto voce to the obstetrician: “The umbilical cord is around the neck.” Red buttons were pushed; resuscitation specialists and equipment were rushed in; and we squeezed our hands even more tightly. Possible future worlds flashed through our minds, and some of them were not the best ones. -‐-‐ Good to see you lying on our bed, playing with your LEGOs, happy and healthy, and still pondering the deep questions in life: “If there is a life after death, do we get to keep our braces in heaven?”

A second thought ...

Sic transit … -‐-‐ Medieval Bologna had a skyline that makes Manhattan look like just another small town in the West.


A market for draw-‐bridges. -‐-‐ I struggle to understand the Italians’ sense of security. Many keep ground-‐floor windows and balcony doors wide open for much of the day while at the same time protecting their apartment doors with metal bars only an anti-‐tank weapon could destroy. (Ours is the only flat in the house without such defences.) A second thought ... On visiting the Morandi exhibition in the Museo d'Arte Moderna di Bologna. -‐-‐ I wish I knew why he thought that his last painting marked a new beginning in his oeuvre. (That said, I am glad not to be surrounded by arty-‐farty friends who would explain it to me in a two-‐hour lecture.)


The son of a draft-‐dodger. – Our children greatly impressed the old people in the Bologna supermarket by being extra helpful, quiet, and cheerful. So not German! But our five-‐year-‐old son ruined it all on the way out. He picked up a six-‐pack, starting marching, and shouted “left, right, left, right …” A second thought ... Bologna. -‐-‐ When temperatures soar, the city centre is one grand Morandi still-‐life.


Ciao Italia! -‐-‐ I am unable to spend my holidays in Austria: I need at least one major mountain range and a few hundred border guards to protect me from thinking about my Viennese departmental duties or about my current philosophical projects.


Facebook vacation message. -‐-‐ I will be able to access my Facebook account only sporadically during the next two weeks. In case you urgently need a FB-‐post, a comment or a "like", please contact my secretary. I shall like you again after my return.


Final thought on the Chemical Revolution. -‐-‐ One family member (who wishes to remain anonymous) had this to say about the completion of my paper: "Six weeks ago, none of us had ever heard of phlogiston, and then we had it for dinner every night: for starter, main course, and dessert."


Paraconsistent bliss. -‐-‐ I sometimes tease my wife for glancing through glossy celebrity-‐ news magazines. When I am finished, and my wife has politely suppressed a yawn, I return to reading about the latest spat between Ronaldo and Mourinho. So? You got a problem with that?


Solomon and the family. – When N. N. opened his ERC Senior Award decision with sweaty palms and trembling fingers, two thoughts shot through his mind: “Help, if I did not get it, I will feel depressed for two weeks, and our impending family holiday will be oversha-‐ dowed.” And: “Oh no, if I did get it, my mind will go into overdrive with planning and negotiating, and our vacations will suffer, too.” -‐-‐ The ERC showed mercy: the panel recommended the proposal for funding, but included it “on a short reserve list … some of which may be granted if additional budget resources become available”. -‐-‐ N.N. lit a candle and said a prayer to Europa.


Cool dudes. -‐-‐ With temperatures set to rise to 40°C (104°F) in Vienna this week, my warmest feelings of gratitude radiate out to two forgotten geniuses: Ding Huan of 2nd-‐century China who invented the rotary fan, and Willis Haviland Carrier (1876-‐1950) who designed the modern air conditioner. -‐-‐ May they chill in peace.

Thought for the day 6/08/2013 Wittgensteins. -‐-‐ I keep stumbling over people with that name who are unrelated to my Ludwig. One Count Wittgenstein was the head of the secret police in Prussia in the 1810s, and sent his agents into the lectures of progressive theologians and philosophers. Count Peter Sayn-‐Wittgenstein-‐Ludwigsburg was a Russian Field Marshal who fought in the Napoleonic wars. The Prussian king honoured him by making him a "Prinz zu". One of his distant offspring is Prince Casimir zu Sayn-‐Wittgenstein-‐Sayn (note the beautiful symmetry in the surname). His greatest claim to fame may just be his former wife Corinna who kept his name after their divorce. She is rumoured to have (had?) a romantic involvement with the Spanish King Juan Carlos, a scandal that may yet bring him down. -‐-‐ How did Ludwig put it again: "The work of the philosopher is assembling reminders for a particular purpose." (I've got as far as the reminders.) Thought for the day 5/08/2013

Perfect recall. -‐-‐ My son is lovely company almost all of the time. But do not let him watch a ninety-‐minute movie and ask him for a summary afterwards: chances are he will report non-‐stop for an hour and a half. -‐-‐ Has he inherited his father’s (occasional) pedantry? Oh well, if he never tests my patience with anything worse …


Forcing the truth. -‐-‐ When Lavoisier was nineteen, he investigated the link between diet and health by ingesting, for several days, nothing but milk. When he investigated methods for improving city lighting, he planned to lock himself up for six weeks in a completely dark room in order to improve his ability to discriminate between small differences in illumination. And on his way to the guillotine he (allegedly) told friends to carefully study his chopped-‐off head: he would keep blinking for as long as he was still conscious. (He did it for fifteen seconds.) – Admittedly, there is something fanatical or obsessive about Lavoisier’s scientific attitude, but it is a form of fanaticism or obsession that I find easy to forgive.


The Kuschian trinity. -‐-‐ During the second half of July and the first half of August, most Viennese escape the heat in the city by travelling to the countryside or foreign beaches. The only people left in town are the poor, the tourist and the workaholic. I am all three at once: I buy vegan clothes; I circle the Ringstraße; and I slave away at a paper nine hours day in, day out.


Grass-‐shirt. -‐-‐ There are some advantages to vegan clothes-‐shopping. The selection is so small that you are lucky to find even one option for the given occasion or season. This puts an effective check on your vanity and it saves you time, too. It also prevents you from wasting money on other things: once you have bought your vegan outfit, you have to count your pennies for quite some time. -‐-‐ But then again, at least you have a pure conscience.


Drowning in adrenalin. -‐-‐ That confusing feeling after nine hours of uninterrupted work on a contentious argument …


Without her not. -‐-‐ Given how much has been written about the Chemical Revolution, it is surprising that no-‐one has produced a biography of Marie-‐Anne Lavoisier (née Paulze). She married the twenty-‐eight-‐year-‐old Antoine when she was only thirteen, to avoid having to wed a count three times her age. She quickly developed an interest in science, and trained with leading chemists and painters. She was Lavoisier's lab assistant and sounding board. She ran the household. Since he understood little English, she acted as his interpreter. She translated Kirwan’s 1787-‐book on the phlogiston theory into French. She defended her father and her husband before the revolutionary tribunal. She lost both to the guillotine within fifteen minutes. She fought for her husband’s legacy during and after the French Revolution. And she kept the name “Lavoisier” even during her second, short, marriage with Benjamin Thompson (a.k.a. as Count Rumford). Last but not least she collected most of Lavoisier’s notebooks and instruments before she died. -‐-‐ I wish I knew more about her.


Hot stuff in forty degrees. -‐-‐ There is no better way to beat exhaustion than supervising half a dozen clever and innovative students with a great rate of progress.


".. un véritable Protée ..." -‐-‐ This will be the organizing theme for my paper on phlogiston and scientific pluralism. The rest is variations ... (... but variations in 38 degrees Celsius: my phlogiston doesn't know whether it's coming or going.)


Towards Metaphilosophy. -‐-‐ Dialogue with my five-‐year old son on our early-‐morning walk. He: "Philosophy and fantasy are very similar, aren't they?" -‐-‐ Me: "Why do you think that?" -‐-‐ He: "They sound very similar." -‐-‐ Me: "Many words sound similar, even though the activities they stand for are not similar at all: e.g. "drinking" and "winking". -‐-‐ [Long pause.] -‐-‐ He: "Are you a philosopher?" -‐-‐ Me: "Sort of ..." -‐-‐ He: "And you like to read us fairy tales. So ..." -‐-‐ Me: "There are many parents, who are not philosophers, who also like to read fairy tales to their children." -‐-‐ [Long pause.] -‐-‐ He: "But you also invent silly stories to tell us what we should do!" -‐-‐ [Long pause.] -‐-‐ Me: "I think you are getting somewhere, Socrates."


Sob-‐sigh and hooray. -‐-‐ Last day ever in the Kindergarten for our youngest child. (I suddenly feel very grown up -‐-‐ he too.)


Our Chemical Revolution. -‐-‐ I have been working on this topic for too long. I lie awake at night listening to phlogistians and anti-‐phlogistians arguing in my mind. And today, on our morning walk, my five-‐year-‐old son lambasted Priestley for chopping off Lavoisier's head. (We clearly need a holiday; only two more weeks to go.)


Shall I compare thee to a feathered heel? -‐-‐ No-‐one has ever written a sonnet about the pleasures of walking in sandals in hot summer weather. I herewith lay claim to the patent.


Killing Time. -‐-‐ Alright, so I too advocate a form of philosophical therapy: Whenever you feel procrastination coming on, try writing an aphorism. I usually find it so hard to do that I happily return to my "real work" after just a few minutes. (And then there is the dreadful thought that, in twenty or thirty years time, I'll be remembered -‐-‐ if at all -‐-‐ only for these silly moments of literary narcicism.)


The eccentric egotistic examiner. -‐-‐ Five years ago, my wife and I were still pretty undecided on whether to stay in Cambridge or leave. One of the events that helped tip the balance was a dinner at a friend's house. We found ourselves in the company of a man who, for both of us, highlighted the human downside of the place. He had a pseudo-‐radical outlandish opinion on every topic. The idea of "turn-‐taking" in conversation was anathema to him. He talked exclusively about his ideas. And -‐-‐ wait for it -‐-‐ he finished every twenty-‐minute monologue with "Discuss!"


“Four souls, alas, are dwelling in my chest ...” -‐-‐ So what do I really want to be: an epistemologist, a philosopher of science, a sociologist of knowledge, or a historian of the sciences? Well, at least I know this: when push comes to shove, I am more curious to find out why, in 1791, Richard Kirwan rejected the phlogiston theory than why, in 2013, some epistemologist seeks to resuscitate the JTB-‐account of knowledge.


Introspective report. -‐-‐ Sitting in the Naschmarkt … family council grants me a couple of minutes to find a thought ... staring desperately at passers-‐by ... hoping for inspiration ... nothing ... must leave it here ... time is up ... back to reality ... son just poured a glass of water over his trousers ...


Old dog. -‐-‐ I have lived too long in cold climates (Northern Germany, Finland, Scotland, England, Canada …): whenever the temperature rises beyond 23 degrees I *have to* run outside and catch *what little there is* of the sun and the heat. Living in Vienna this behaviour is rather dysfunctional: we have week after week of beautifully hot summer weather and spending too much time in bright, hot sunshine gives me migraines. -‐-‐ But here I stand, smack in the sun. I can do no other. May Ra help me.


Mens erudita in corpore duro. -‐-‐ I don't think that working out three times a week has made

my mind any healthier. (Fat chance ...) But it has made my philosophical work more scholarly: after all, instead of carrying three books home from the library, I am able to fill my backpack with fifteen.


Dr. Seinfeld-‐Z. -‐-‐ Has anyone ever combined rap music with stand-‐up comedy? I do not mean comedians parodying rappers (of which there are many); or rappers being unwanted stand-‐up comedians (of which there are even more) ... No, I mean rappers "busting", "spitting" or "flowing" "hoots"?


Unconscious chemical nationalism. -‐-‐ I keep writing "sophisticated" instead of "phlogisticated".


Reading throw-‐ups. -‐-‐ Studying, and sometimes admiring, the graffiti along the Donaukanal in Vienna, I have become fascinated with the culture and language of the "writers" of this form of art. For instance, in ascending order of complexity, writers call their murals "tags", "throw-‐ups", "bombs" and "pieces". They distinguish between "toys" (beginners), "hats" (trustworthy writers), "heads" (highly respected writers), and "angels" (dead hats or heads). A key element of the culture is to show nonchalance about one's pieces getting "buffed" (i.e. painted over). -‐-‐ There must be some lessons for philosophers in all this ...


“Don’t worry, be happy.” -‐-‐ On the eastern banks of the Donaukanal, between Augarten-‐ and Salztorbrücke, Vienna City Centre has its very own Mediterranean beach: yellow and white sand, deckchairs, cocktail bars (“Tel Aviv Beach”), as well as elegant and scruffy food places playing reggae classics. All this is framed by Otto Wagner’s stunning “Schützenhaus” and numerous graffiti murals on the flood walls. -‐-‐ We have become almost daily visitors, debating and ranking the latest artistic additions, waving at the riverboats, taking in the sun, and enjoying the cuisine of the vegan kebab shop.


A father's cry for help. -‐-‐ Is puberty really starting at the age of ten nowadays, and not at fifteen as in the good old nineteenth century? Is this progress? How will I survive the five extra years?


Diminishing returns. -‐-‐ How detailed a description of the semantics and pragmatics of our knowledge attributions do epistemologists have to muster before they call it a day?


Habermas’ long, bad shadow. -‐-‐ I have stopped posting my aphorisms on Facebook. All too often I caught myself ‘fishing for the “likes” of specific friends’ rather than ‘addressing all

rational people of all times’.


Chemical Polarity. -‐-‐ Two-‐hundred years after Priestley and Lavoisier -‐-‐ and philosophers of science are still trying to decide which of the two really deserved to win.


In the spirit of Karl Kraus. -‐-‐ I wish philosophers of all ilk would stop insisting that those who disagree with them need “therapy” rather than “mere arguments”. (The therapeutic position “is the disease of which it claims to be the cure”.)


Inattentional blindness. -‐-‐ Alright, so we do not see the gorilla walking through the scene. I am not surprised: who ever notices when I get new glasses?


Schönbrunn Tiergarten. -‐-‐ As a vegan and defender of animal welfare, you do not expect to have the time of your life taking your children to the zoo. But the boredom and the waste of money may still surprise you. The lions don’t raise an eyebrow; the crocs look stuffed; and the flamingos are on their last leg. And you leave fifty Euros the poorer.


Let there be men -‐-‐ and women -‐-‐ about me that are physicists. -‐-‐ Around 12 noon on a hot Saturday in July I got stuck: I needed to know what present-‐day physics says about "superheating" and "radiation of the cold". Around 12:30pm I emailed requests for help to six physicists. By 1pm I already had four answers -‐-‐ and they all agreed with each other.


Christian Köhnke (1953-‐2013). -‐-‐ His 1986-‐book *Entstehung und Aufstieg des Neukan-‐ tianismus* (later published in English as *The Rise of Neo-‐Kantianism*) is one of the modern classics in the sociology of philosophy; and one of the main inspirations for my own feeble attempts in that genre. -‐-‐ May he rest in peace.


What I love about HPS. -‐-‐ Over the past two days I have devoured some twenty-‐odd brilliant research papers on late-‐eighteenth-‐century debates over phlogiston. And I can even use this fascinating material to make a philosophical point.


Between all chairs. -‐-‐ Not radical enough to be “revolutionary”, and too independent to befit “normal science”.


Moratorium. -‐-‐ I recently completed the eighth round of revisions of a paper defending van Fraassen on microscopes. Half of them were provoked by objections from referees and editors, the other half by my own wavering. When I get to up to fifteen rewrites, the manuscript will go into the lower drawer for three years. (Alas, the bottom of the desk is getting pretty full.)


On the plurality of times. -‐-‐ Now that it’s summer and there is no teaching, I have returned to my old habit of walking the Ringstraße between 7 and 8 am on my way to work. I listen to a Jazz station from San Fransisco still seeing out the final hours of the previous day. They usually play “cuts” from the 1930s to the 1950s, a good 80 to 100 years younger than the houses around me. -‐-‐ And I am getting older by the day.


Role conflict. -‐-‐ However many times I have criticized the views of other philosophers in the past, I still feel (at least moderately) guilty when I set out to do it yet again. I continue to be torn between the conventions of academic debate and the norms of everyday politeness.


Break. -‐-‐ First day of the teaching-‐and-‐admin-‐free time (a.k.a. "the Summer holidays"), and already I am exhausted from all the hard thinking I suddenly have to do.


Family Resemblances. -‐-‐ Our three children all have my wife’s face. Good for them. Alas, none of them has her emotional balance, patience, common sense, and good humour. (They are my children too, after all.)


Cursing at my colleagues. -‐-‐ My five-‐year-‐old son and I passed an election poster of the leader of a far-‐right party. “Bastard”, I mumbled. My offspring was intrigued: “Papa, is he also a philosopher then?”


Four years in Vienna. -‐-‐ Everything feels like home by now -‐-‐ everything, except for certain German footprints in my academic environment.


The chopping blog. -‐-‐ "Please tell me, Herr Kusch: if I ask you a stupid question, will you then pillory me in one of your aphorisms?"


You could not make this up. -‐-‐ When one of its fellows turns seventy, the British Academy sends them the following type of letter: Dear Professor X, very best congratulations on the

occasion of your seventieth birthday. May we take this opportunity to invite you to send us detailed information about your career, and especially its early stages? Such material will be invaluable to people writing your obituary. Very best wishes …


For Harry Collins on his birthday. -‐-‐ Given your enormous productivity, how can you possibly be seventy already? -‐-‐ Given the volume of your work, how can you only be seventy?


That fatherly feeling. -‐-‐ I love spending a day at home, alone with our three kindles.


Narrow-‐minded. -‐-‐ I am so used to conference travel that I get confused flying off to meet a colleague “just out of friendship”. I keep asking myself how many copies of the birthday card I should take with me.


Hope. -‐-‐ Ten hours of waiting around airports coming up this week: this should bring a breakthrough for the paper I have been working on for months.


Plus ça change ... -‐-‐ Fountain pens and hardback books make for natural presents. Keyboards or e-‐books do not. -‐-‐ How long will it take for our sensibilities to change?


“Promiscuous Realism”. -‐-‐ Today I asked the owner of the new “snack shop” around the corner, whether any of his goods were vegan. His answer would have warmed John Dupré’s heart: “We classify foods by their flavours; you classify them by their ingredients. That’s okay, but I can’t help you.”


Heimat. -‐-‐ Almost the only times I think of my place of birth is when I pass through the rose garden at the Danube Canal, less than a mile from my home. It features a white rose named “Leverkusen”. I have to laugh every time: what does the smell of roses have to do with a town dominated by a huge stinking chemical plant?


Just a little bit full of myself. -‐-‐ I tend to be rather critical of my performance as a father. But there are exceptions. Today I took my children to another country; I walked them up and down two hills in 30 degrees Celsius; I bought them three meals; I taught them half a dozen things about life, science and philosophy; and I kept them laughing. On the drive home they fell asleep, happy and exhausted. I looked into the rear view mirror and said to myself: “Not bad, Papa!”


Damaged for life. -‐-‐ I shall never ever again post my children's jokes or insights on Facebook. Imagine one child getting twenty-‐five "likes" for her remark, and another barely two: the trauma, the depression, the pain!


De nobis ipsis silemus. -‐-‐ If only more philosophical speakers honoured this valuable advice.


Male mutilation. -‐-‐ What are we doing to our boys? When they are five they are -‐-‐ judging by my small sample of two daughters and a son -‐-‐ every bit as emotionally savvy, caring and empathetic as the girls. By the time they are twenty they have fallen behind in all these respects. (Or so it is said.) I am curious to find out whether one can resist the trend.


Pleasures almost forgotten. -‐-‐ With term still in full swing, I spent the day lying on our living room sofa reading a philosophical book not directly related to my own research. And I met my wife for lunch. (If these terrible secrets ever got out, I’d be shot, stuffed and mounted over the door of my departmental office ...)


Recurring complaint. -‐-‐ On six days a week it is easy to come up with a “thought for the day”. On the seventh day, it’s Tuesday. Two hours of seminar followed by two hours of admin, followed by two hours of lecturing, followed by two hours of supervising, followed by two hours of departmental socializing: this only leaves space for thoughts like this one.


Out of the mouths of babes. -‐-‐ Recently my eight-‐year-‐old daughter had this to say to me: "You do explain things really well. But I see two problems. The first is that you want to explain things nobody else cares about, like testimony, testimony, bla, bla, bla ... The second problem is that you bring in too many details, and even numbers! And I do not need numbers to know that my little brother is no angel." (I'll never make a Bayesian out of her.)


Naming and Necessity. -‐-‐ Conversation with my eight-‐year old daughter in front of the “Albertina”. Me: “Do you see the statue over there, in front of the museum?” -‐-‐ She: “Of course.” -‐-‐ Me: “What do you think is the name of the man on the horse?” -‐-‐ She: “I don’t know.” -‐-‐ Me: “He is the one who gave the money for the building and the collection.” -‐-‐ She: “Albert?” -‐-‐ Me: “You are brilliant.” -‐-‐ She: “And the name of his horse must have been ‘Tina’.”


"What goes around ..." -‐-‐ I encounter every philosophical objection twice: on one occasion, I

target it against someone else's views; on another, it is leveled against mine.


Vanity cure. -‐-‐ Discussing philosophical texts with my students can be a humbling experience: here I am with my thirty years of professional experience, and yet, at least collectively, these beginners come up with every single one of “my” objections to the paper or chapter.


The new Hamlet. -‐-‐ There are more epistemological and metaphysical positions between heaven and earth, Philobilly, than were dreamt up in your philosophy.


Rebuke. -‐-‐ Do not think something a mystery just because you do not understand it!


Another lesson from academic politics. -‐-‐ Sometimes the paranoid view of the world is exactly right.


Confusion. -‐-‐ How could anyone feel intimidated by clear reasoning?


“De todo ha de haber en el mundo.” – I recently enlightened my three children about the horrors of the meat industry. The two younger ones -‐-‐ of five and eight years -‐-‐ were visibly shocked and insisted on being vegan (at least for that evening). Our ten-‐year old was unmoved: “I am glad you do not force us to be vegan; I need my sausages and my schnitzels.”


Self-‐vindication. -‐-‐ The more I read about pluralism vs. monism, or unity vs. disunity, in the sciences, the more I think that the disunifiers have it – at least on the meta-‐level: there is unity to neither pluralism nor monism.


Mao in Vienna. -‐-‐ I first developed an interest in politics when -‐-‐ as a ten-‐year-‐old -‐-‐ I read the autobiography of the Dalai Lama. The experience inoculated me forever against enthusiasm for Chinese-‐style Communism. -‐-‐ And for a couple of years I insisted on putting butter in my tea. (All these memories came flooding back today when my modest attempts at departmental-‐institutional reform were denounced by a colleague as a “permanent revolution”.)


Nostalgia. -‐-‐ Maximum temperature in Vienna on May 30th: 10 °C. In Oulu (my one-‐time home in Northern Finland): 30 °C. -‐-‐ Can I come back now?


“Der Freischütz.” -‐-‐ When I was in tenth grade, our music teacher spent a whole year taking us through Weber’s opera, almost bar by bar. I have been hooked ever since -‐-‐ never mind how silly I find the plot, the characters, and even parts of the music.


Poor sport. -‐-‐ If ocean levels keep rising at their current rate, the sea will claim Cambridge in less than fifty years. Oxford will finally dominate the “boat race”.


Drowning by numbers. -‐-‐ 99.9% of my aphorisms aren’t worth the energy it took to produce and store them. Too bad that the 0.1% that are -‐-‐ will sink with the rest.


“Constant dripping wears the stone.” -‐-‐ I am finally beginning to understand how to effect institutional change in academia. The key is NOT to think of the endless number of meetings -‐-‐ most of which simply repeat previous rounds of discussions -‐-‐ as a total waste of time. ‘Sitzfleisch’ is the name of the game: everyone must get so bored that the reform seems like a relief.


Do I really want to know? -‐-‐ Are my long-‐time friends and acquaintances as struck by my mental and physical deterioration as I am by theirs?


Contradiction. -‐-‐ Philip Kitcher wants us all to become "happy consumers" of the writings of Richard Dawkins. And that in the name of Enlightenment!


Warning. -‐-‐ You can draw your line in the sand wherever you want -‐-‐ but watch my toes.


A la recherche du temps perdu. -‐-‐ Another “Cambridge day” coming up tomorrow: hour-‐long graduate supervisions from 9am until 5pm, followed by a departmental seminar. Inadvertently I seem to have recreated the intense academic life I was so desperate to leave behind. (Oddly, it does not seem so unbearable in the Viennese context.)


On the shoulders of dwarfs. -‐-‐ We are all re-‐tweeters now.


Puzzle. -‐-‐ Looking into my wardrobe, I am struck by the fact that back in Cambridge – during my late thirties and forties -‐-‐ I tended to buy clothes that befit a fifty-‐year old. In Vienna I am increasingly attracted to hoodies, polo-‐shirts, and baggy shorts. I am not desperate to look younger than my age (as far as I can tell), and most of my professorial colleagues in Austria emulate the Oxbridge dress code.


Znoijma. -‐-‐ It is hard to imagine that, not so long ago, this picturesque and sleepy town was the place of fierce and even violent German-‐Czech ethnic conflict and cleansing.


Second thoughts of a referee. -‐-‐ It feels strange to write letters of recommendation to grant-‐giving bodies that, in the past, have turned me down. Something in me thinks: “If I am good enough to assess others for this fellowship, then surely I must be worthy of it myself.”


Cambridge’s long shadow. -‐-‐ Even critics of Western academia have to mention that they once were invited to present their ideas there. And faces glow when they do so.


Definition of a journalist. -‐-‐ Someone you talk to for more than two hours over lunch on their request -‐-‐ and they don’t even pick up the bill.


Reversal of roles. -‐-‐ Today I spent almost three hours talking to a roomful of PhD students of Vienna’s “University of Natural Resources and Life Sciences”. They had invited me hoping that, as a philosopher of science, I would be able to answer all their methodological and metaphysical worries. After I had cured them of this misconception, we had a lively discussion about the nature of applied sciences – and they were the teachers.


Political philosophy light. -‐-‐ I am all for philosophers exploring the relationship between science and democracy. But until they properly engage with the state of the art in political science, social theory and sociology of knowledge, their results will remain utterly worthless.


Philomania. -‐-‐ Ten hours of seminars, supervisions and administrative meetings without a break – who says that a philosophy professorship can’t drive you mad?


Martin III. – An aphorism! An aphorism! My professorship for an aphorism!


Philoanalysis. -‐-‐ My undergraduate teachers in Jyväskylä were a very mixed bunch: followers of Steiner, Spengler, Heidegger, Marx, Wittgenstein, Indian thought and Lorenzen’s method of semantic tableaux. -‐-‐ No wonder I ended up a philosophical mongrel.


Survivor. -‐-‐ When I began my university education in Jyväskylä in 1981, my cohort of philosophy majors consisted of just six students. A year later, five of them had changed fields or dropped out of university altogether.


Diary entry. -‐-‐ Off to Jyväskylä (Finland) today for a special occasion: the philosophy department where I did my undergraduate degree (between 1981 and 1984) celebrates its anniversary with a two-‐day workshop. Presenting my paper (on Wittgenstein) is the easy part. But there is a scary part, too: the current chair is giving a talk on my undergraduate thesis. It was entitled *Critique of Mortal Reason* and constituted my feeble attempt to deal philosophically with my father’s death three years earlier. This might bring back painful memories.


Mobile louts. -‐-‐ No doubt, cell phones have their uses and advantages. But I deplore the deterioration of sociability that results from people taking calls in the middle of conversations, workshops and even departmental meetings.


Defeat. -‐-‐ My office window has direct sunshine from 10 to 5. As a result, from June until September, most days I am working in temperatures between 30 and 40 degrees Celsius. For my first three years here I put up with the resulting exhaustion and nausea: I wanted to be accessible to students and colleagues. This year I rebelled. First I tried to convince central services to install air-‐conditioning. Refused. Then I offered to buy my own mobile air-‐conditioning unit. Refused. Finally I offered to buy my own mobile unit *and* pay for the electricity. Refused: “We hope you find some other solution to your personal problem.” -‐-‐ Tradition has won: I am working from home.


Decision. -‐-‐ Should I sit on Austria’s official committee for the ethics of genetic research? Con: I am not an expert in morality. Pro: There are no such experts, and I know it.


My philistines. -‐-‐ Take my children to a modern art museum and they are mildly interested at best. Take them to a carwash -‐-‐ and leave them in the car during the process -‐-‐ and they are ecstatic.


A helpful ambiguity. -‐-‐ As my paper on Ian Hacking's work is -‐-‐ somewhat unexpectedly -‐-‐ getting close to the 4,000-‐views mark (on Academia.edu), I am beginning to wonder that it might have something to do with "hacking".


“City Lights”. -‐-‐ Ever since I told my children that the final scene (between the tramp and the flower girl) once made me cry, they insist on us watching it together over and over again.


“Meltdown.” -‐-‐ I didn’t know the meaning of the term before I had children.


A question of our budding (five-‐year-‐old) theologian. -‐-‐ "So, how much tax does God pay on his salary?"


“Yamm!” -‐-‐ I am getting tired of having to explain my veganism at every turn. Would it all be easier if I had some religion to invoke? Alas, Judaism, Catholicism, Islam, or Buddhism won’t do. Perhaps I should invent a new creed, and name it after my favourite Viennese restaurant.


Flaneur cérébral. -‐-‐ Around the corner from Semmelweis‘ old hospital is a shop selling materials for the training of doctors. I have a special weakness for the window with brain models: there are “brains for beginners”, “brains in two parts”, “brains with eight parts”, “transparent brains”, “small brains”, “brains in skulls”, and so on. -‐-‐ One day I’ll walk in and ask for a large flexible brain with refills, skull and curly hair.


Symmetry. -‐-‐ I have no problems with turning grey. But this process should obey some basic principles of symmetry: it makes no aesthetic sense for the left side of my moustache to change colour while the right side does not.


With friends like that ... -‐-‐ I greatly enjoy giving talks about Wittgenstein’s philosophy -‐-‐ except when the audience consists of Wittgensteinians.


Islands. -‐-‐ Much of what I know is as disjointed as if it had been created by Wikipedia’s “special:random” function.


“Oh well, dad, you got to accept that life has its ups and downs.” -‐-‐ Sometimes my children use words and phrases that make me shudder -‐-‐ I suddenly realise that their childhood is soon coming to an end.


“Mañana, mañana”. -‐-‐ I am beginning to doubt whether having three nationalities in my extended family really does make me more tolerant of cultural differences.


The last resort. -‐-‐ My children’s behaviour has its ups and downs in quick succession. Maybe that’s why the only way to control it is by granting and withholding access to yoyos.


My extended mind. -‐-‐ I don't read books anymore -‐-‐ I just download them onto my Kindle.


Dialogue with my wife. -‐-‐ “What's the world coming to?” -‐-‐ “Well, where has it been?”


Alpha male. -‐-‐ I cringe when people treat me as if I were striving to be one.


Embarrassing. -‐-‐ You were asked to briefly introduce yourself, not to tell us about every paperclip you’ve ever used.


It’s all relative. -‐-‐ There is nothing as pleasant as finally coming home after an eight-‐hour committee meeting: even the children’s screaming and shouting suddenly feels soothing.


Seeds of doubt. -‐-‐ Walking the city walls of Dubrovnik made me wonder whether building the Ringstraße in Vienna was such a great idea after all.


Meltdown. -‐-‐ You give one really bad paper -‐-‐ and my respect for your work is gone forever.


Our ongoing research project. -‐-‐ And today at breakfast my son and I tried to eat and think at the same time. The results were inconclusive.


Red Nose Day. -‐-‐ The first nasal sunburn of the season is the only one that is genuinely welcome.


Physiological enquiry. -‐-‐ "Papa, can one think and drink at the same time?" (I don't think my five-‐year old meant "drink" as in "drinking alcohol".)


Ultimatum. -‐-‐ Increasing numbers of students in my seminars have headphones dangling just below their ears. There are days when this feels like a threat: “You better make this interesting, prof, or else ...”


Power. -‐-‐ I miss my wife when she is out for the evening -‐-‐ but I enjoy being "totally in charge" of the household and all of its junior citizens.


When my muse is away. -‐-‐ I am unable to write aphorisms without my censor looking over my shoulders, and wrinkling her nose.


No aphorism left. -‐-‐ Not after four hours of lecturing, three hours of committee work, and two hours of supervisions, all in one day.


Moments I hate. -‐-‐ When I remember, five minutes to midnight, that I still need to write a bloody thought for day.


Contradictions in my unconscious? -‐-‐ I am told that my “profile” and “likes” determine which pages Facebook “sponsors” on my "wall". Fine, but what in the world have I done that justifies links to “Kardinal Christoph Schönborn”, “Seniorbook -‐-‐ meet people your age”, or “Sexy Bikinis 2013”?


Pray do not think this pompous. -‐-‐ There are times when I am genuinely surprised by my ability to stay on top of my (at least occasionally) absurdly large workload -‐-‐ if only just ...


Degeneration. -‐-‐ The center of Vienna is increasingly turning into one big shopping mall for expensive watches. Who needs a tick-‐tock for €40,000 anyway -‐-‐ except for the big, bad expropriators?


Another station on the road to irrelevance. -‐-‐ The moment when your children no longer need help with their baths or showers ...


Siderophobia. -‐-‐ One day we stumble over Justin Bieber and his fans at Hotel Sacher, a couple of days later Tom Cruise and his entourage block our way at Liebenberggasse. When will these starlets stop stalking us?


Lottery. -‐-‐ Most applicants have no idea how arbitrary the decisions of interdisciplinary scholarship juries often are. I have been on a panel where no-‐one (except me) resisted claims like “no money should go to economists since they are responsible for the current financial crisis”, or “philosophy is too abstract to be useful”.


Close escape. -‐-‐ For most Viennese Bratislava is little more than a big shopping centre with an old but uninteresting town centre. And yet, for us it is the nearest city on foreign soil -‐-‐ the first place we think of when occasionally we “have to get away” from Austria, at least for an afternoon.


Priorities. -‐-‐ If I had the choice between my children becoming outstanding philosophers or famous chess-‐players, my preference would not be what you would expect.


Dangerous Vienna. -‐-‐ Today, on our evening walk past Hotel Sacher, my girls and I almost got trampled to death by a crowd of hysterical teenagers trying to catch a glimpse of Justin Bieber. We didn’t even know he was there -‐-‐ and at least one of us didn’t much care.


Revivals. -‐-‐ If Mozart were alive today, he would play jazz. If Beethoven were still with us, he would rock. And Wagner? He would do a “Gesamtkunst-‐werk” with rap and breakdance.


Pharmaceutical economy. -‐-‐ I go through peculiar consumption cycles: I slowly increase the number of medicines and food supplements that I take on a daily basis. Sooner or later I get fed up with this “addiction” and throw them all in the bin. I then live “clean” for while ... until -‐-‐ usually on doctor’s advice -‐-‐ I eventually start all over again.


Hexenschuss. -‐-‐ There are few things capable of destroying my enthusiasm for intellectual

work as thoroughly as lumbago -‐-‐ or, as the Germans put it so well -‐-‐ “a witch’s shot”.


There is progress. -‐-‐ When I was a heavy smoker, I could not imagine the day when I would not even want to take a single puff. Oh well, the day has arrived.


My stand-‐up comedy act. -‐-‐ When the temperatures fall below zero degrees Celsius, I bring a smile to every Austrian face I meet outside: I am the only person who wears skiing trousers in the centre of town.


Blindspots. -‐-‐ Analytic philosophers assume that all philosophical theories must ultimately be based on intuitive and simple principles. Continental thinkers do not believe that there are any such principles.


Prayer. -‐-‐ “And do not lead me into temptation” ... by leaving me home alone with my children’s remote-‐controlled helicopter.


The criminal in me. -‐-‐ I like to think that I am basically a decent person. But let me walk along a hotel corridor on a Sunday morning at 6am, and I cannot resist the temptation to change the “Do not disturb” signs to “Please clean up this room”.


Uninformed praise. -‐-‐ I hate it when people tell me: “Your book X has been so important for me, especially your claim that p.” In 99 out of 100 cases, I had just cited the idea in question (reference and all).


Fine distinction. -‐-‐ One day I need to determine whether these “thoughts” are aphorisms or epigrams.


Musical tastes. -‐-‐ When it comes to music I am an omnivore, or shamelessly promiscuous: I can listen to opera, heavy metal, blues, reggae and gypsy jazz in one and the same hour, and be moved equally by them all. – Of course there is also music that I detest: Andrew Lloyd Webber or Johann Strauss, for example.


Wired bonding. -‐-‐ It’s a truly “special moment” when my daughter and I go to the dentist

together to have our braces adjusted.


“Ich bin kein Amerikaner.” -‐-‐ In an effort to fight gun control, some American towns have passed legislation that makes gun ownership a legal obligation.


The Bible revised. -‐-‐ Love thy enemies ... before they love you.


Possibility and actuality. -‐-‐ Sanctions are most effective as threats -‐-‐ not when they are actually imposed.


Reality check. -‐-‐ I would sleep a lot better if only I learnt not to overestimate my enemies all the time.


Late insight. -‐-‐ There are people who oppose me whatever I say. And a good many of those are just gagging for my negative attention.


*Lebensphilosophie* renewed. -‐-‐ The only way to write a “philosophy of life” at the beginning of the twenty-‐first century is as a series of daily aphorisms.


Linguistic challenges. -‐-‐ My five-‐year-‐old son tends to mix up difficult words: for example, “private” and “pirate”, or “puberty” and “pension”. He insists that no-‐one should see his pirate parts, and tells his friends that in fifteen years I will get to puberty.


Hyvä Suomi. -‐-‐ Even twenty years after leaving Finland, there are still contexts and situations when the first thing that comes to my mind is a Finnish expression: “auringon silta” (literally: bridge of the sun), for the reflection of the sun on water; “kissan ristiäiset” (literally: baptizing of a cat), for an utterly irrelevant event; or “ei hätä ole tämän näköinen” (literally: this is not what trouble looks like), for a problem that can easily be solved.


Triangulation. -‐-‐ My aphorisms fall into three categories: the nasty, the silly, and the sentimental. That's me, summed up.


Re Kleist's "Über die allmähliche Verfertigung der Gedanken beim Reden" (On the gradual forming of thoughts while speaking). -‐-‐ Well, in the case of some people speaking doesn't help. Thought for the day 8/3/2013

"My right arm is very heavy, my right arm is very heavy ..." -‐-‐ There are philosophers that I can bear listening to only if I do self-‐relaxation exercises at the same time.


Georg Henrik von Wright (1916-‐2003). -‐-‐ There are few (if any) philosophers I admire as much -‐-‐ as both a thinker and a person -‐-‐ as this Swedish-‐speaking Finn of Scottish descent. When I was a PhD student in the 1980s I even refused his offer to shift to first names: it seemed too much of a sacrilege. Moreover, I still remember the joy I felt when he introduced me in his research seminar with the words: “Our speaker today does not need an introduction: he is one of us.” And when my marriage to a Finnish woman ended, and I was in danger of losing my residence permit, he personally wrote to the president of the country on my behalf. -‐-‐ May he rest in peace.


Family therapy. -‐-‐ Whenever I think I have got serious problems at work, I take my two daughters for a walk and let them tell me about all the infighting and intrigue at their school. After ten minutes, my life doesn’t seem so bad.


A la recherche du temps perdu. -‐-‐ My children and I just walked through Cambridge, from the centre of town up to 72 Alpha Road where we used to live. The Google Street View pictures were taken in 2008, a few months before we left. Our car is standing in front of the house, and our curtains are flying.


Layers of History. -‐-‐ The “Türkenschanzpark” in Vienna was built in 1888 to commemo-‐ rate the victory over the Turks two hundred years earlier. The Turkish army had a major entrenchment in this location, possibly already in 1529. When it came to designing the park, the Austrians picked English gardens as their model. In 1991 the Turkish govern-‐ ment donated a fountain for the park -‐-‐ in Ottoman design, and celebrating the life and work of the twelfth-‐century mystic and Sufist Yunus Emre. It is meant to symbolize friendship between East and West. A few steps away is the “Paulinenwarte”, an obser-‐ vatory sponsored by one Pauline von Metternich, a “grande dame” so charming and beautiful that Napoleon III ordered the Paris opera to perform Wagner, just to make her happy.


All it takes. -‐-‐ For some inscrutable reason I have recently fallen for 1940s American jazz music. -‐-‐ And suddenly I find myself interested in American culture, life, and history to a strange and surprising degree.


Equation. -‐-‐ Gustav Klimt is the Johann Strauss of painting.


Kierkegaardian decision time. -‐-‐ To jump or not to jump -‐-‐ that is the question.


The enemy within. -‐-‐ My fiercest critic is never far away -‐-‐ always sitting right there at the end of my neck.


Pleasure. -‐-‐ To meet up with former students and see them flourish -‐-‐ babies and all.


Conspiracy Theory. -‐-‐ No week passes without someone somewhere in my university inviting me into some “important” or “prestigious” committee. It is as if honouring me were more important than me doing research.


Going native. -‐-‐ We have become all too thoroughly Viennese: when it’s cold and wet, we stay in the city, walk around the Augarten, bake cake, and watch ski-‐jumping on television. (No, we are not yet trying to fit in a religious service or two.)


To hell with you flu! -‐-‐ How cruel to time your arrival to coincide with our first trip to the theatre in ten years.


Competences. -‐-‐ Today I was asked by an Arab-‐language TV station to give a 10-‐minute interview on the topic of moderation. This reminded me of the time, some five years ago, when an English head-‐hunting company inquired whether I would be interested in becoming the director of research of the UK Border Agency.


Depressing Twitter pattern. -‐-‐ The less tweets I write, the more followers I get.


Growing up. -‐-‐ My wife and I have not been to the movies or the theatre in ten years -‐-‐ not since our first child was born. By this stage, our children, who have been to dozens of plays, urge us to stop being philistines. Tickets are booked.


Regression. -‐-‐ For the first time in two decades, when stuck in my work, I have to resort to my fountain pen and unlined paper.


Prickly arguments. -‐-‐ I need plants on my desk to inspire me while I write: my current favourite is a cactus.


“Djangology”. -‐-‐ If it weren’t for Django Reinhardt’s contribution to jazz, I would not know one thing about Gypsy culture.


La vida es sueño. -‐-‐ Why doesn’t El Chapo ever show up to pay for our dinners at expensive restaurants?


Musical “Sonderweg”. -‐-‐ To this day the clarinets played in Germany differ from those used anywhere else in the world. And this despite the fact that not even Barenboim can tell them apart and that the German version costs twice as much.


Music was my first love ... -‐-‐ Much as I like my children’s musical activities, when one of them is practicing the flute in front of my right ear, and the other is taking her first steps on the clarinet in front of my left ear, I’d rather be in the “Musikverein” – even at the dreaded New Year’s concert.


Challenge. -‐-‐ “We liked your previous presentation on Wittgenstein and metrology -‐-‐ could you now please give another, different, talk on that same topic?” -‐-‐ Writing a second paper on a given topic takes me twice as long as producing the first. It is as if my brain can deliver only one thought per subject matter.


Pyjama parties. -‐-‐ My five-‐year-‐old son attended his first one today. But to think that the prime minister of the United Kingdom used to organize them at his official residence, with major business leaders and journalists as his guests ...

Thought for the day 12/2/2013 Regression. -‐-‐ For thirty years, I did not give a fig for Cologne carnival. But then I thought my children needed introducing to at least one of its most famous songs. And suddenly I felt a child again, standing on the street, watching the floats go by, catching candies, and

screaming at the top of my lungs. Thought for the day 11/2/2013

Debate and mudslinging. -‐-‐ Academic conflicts over institutional politics are of two kinds: those where the parties nevertheless respect each others’ intellectual achievements, and those where they do not. Not even the Dalai Lama has some good advice on how to resolve the latter type of disagreement.


Climb-‐down. -‐-‐ I ridicule Facebook a lot -‐-‐ but there are days when it seems to be a major link to a saner, kinder, world.


Boring. -‐-‐ What would life be without misunderstandings?


Feeling like a punching bag. -‐-‐ It is hard to write aphorisms after spending all day trying to do justice to the comments of a hypercritical journal referee. (I do not doubt it is all for the best, but it hurts.)


The five-‐year old sceptic. -‐-‐ “If God really exists, then why doesn’t he have a surname?”


Symptom. -‐-‐ I know that I need a holiday when it takes an all-‐day shower of baroque music to keep my adrenalin at normal levels.


That special time of the year. -‐-‐ Every year, during the first week of February, all of the Viennese are away skiing in the mountains. At last I have the department and the family all to myself.


Saving our marriage. -‐-‐ Vienna suddenly sports so many vegan restaurants that -‐-‐ after 15 years of being together -‐-‐ my wife and I have finally found something to argue about: which ones to go to.


Mysteries of taste. -‐-‐ It utterly defeats me why certain of my Facebook posts are popular and why others sink like stones. I post a sophisticated joke linking together dentistry, torture, and Galileo’s “eppur si muove”. I even add a photo that I courageously shot while sitting in the dentist’s chair. I get hardly any responses. I post “off to the barber shop, back in ten

minutes” and half the world likes it.


Maintaining a semblance of sanity. -‐-‐ Each year Viennese right-‐wing fraternities, in cooperation with the Austrian “Freedom [sic!] Party”, organise a big Carnival ball. That same evening, various “antifascist” organisations demonstrate against the event right across the city centre. There are roadblocks everywhere. Riot policemen are out in their hundreds. And police vans race up and down the streets. -‐-‐ We try to maintain an illusion of normality by walking along the Ringstraße playing animal quiz with the kids. Welcome to Vienna.


Never. -‐-‐ When will I finally learn to write in a measured and dispassionate way about things close to my philosophical heart?


Bipolar dress disorder. -‐-‐ Our ten-‐year-‐old daughter is undecided between two possible Carnival outfits: she wants to go either as Jesus or as Miss World. (So much for our non-‐sexist, non-‐religious way of bringing her up.)


Oskar-‐Heinz Kusch. -‐-‐ I doubt that I have his courage; I do not doubt that I too have my Abel.


Soothing stagnation. -‐-‐ Parents love fun-‐fairs because most rides have not changed in thirty years or more.


Task for an aphorist better than me. – Fuse the following into one: “All dressed up and no place to go.” And: “Incompetence dressed up as ideology ...”


Self-‐indictment. -‐-‐ "Sorry, I cannot take on an administrative role in the department. I am too socially inapt." -‐-‐ "You are indeed, or else you'd know how laughable an excuse this is."


Subliminal messages. -‐-‐ When working at home, I am best able to concentrate with the following set-‐up: I sit in the study, and the three doors between the study and the kitchen are all open. The radio in the kitchen is set to BBC Radio 4 and to a low volume. I am unable to make out individual words. All I can hear is the melody of the Queen's English.


Ambivalence. -‐-‐ I sometimes hope, sometimes fear, that one day my aphorisms will become

the “target” of some Benjaminesk analysis.


Spirits. -‐-‐ I have started to “compose” my aphorisms in the company of a glass of beer.


Grudging compliment. -‐-‐ "You are a walking breaching experiment."


Riddle. -‐-‐ How in the world did it happen that in my old age I have become addicted to hoodies (the jumpers, not the people)? -‐-‐ No, nor for Cameron’s reasons ...


“You may play go, but do not let go play you.” -‐-‐ On the day the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima on August 6th, 1945, a go match was under way in the city between two famous players, Hashimoto Utaro and Iwamoto Kaoru. When the bomb exploded at 8.15am, the building was damaged and many spectators were hurt. And yet, despite all the devastation around, the game was continued after lunch. It is referred to in the literature as the “atomic bomb go game”.


Consolations for the specialist. -‐-‐ Note to self: Next time you moan about your Viennese department, remember that you are surrounded by half a dozen first-‐class Wittgenstein zealots.


Waiting for insight. -‐-‐ One of the most difficult things to learn in tournament-‐level chess is how to divide one’s limited time budget appropriately between the different phases of the game. This must be a striking metaphor for some aspect of academic life ... if only I knew which one.


"L’institut, c’est moi.“ -‐-‐ Some of my Viennese colleagues use very peculiar types of argument in departmental politics. Here is one: “I have identified with this department for longer, and more deeply, than anyone else. This is why my views on its future carry more weight than yours.” -‐-‐ One underlying thought is that only people on the brink of retirement have the right to determine the department’s future.


Welcome to *Waziristan Haveli*. -‐-‐ For a while last year, someone googling "Osama Bin Laden" would end up on my webpage. (I had written a "thought for the day" about him.) -‐-‐ Call me "paranoid", but I became a little nervous about the helicopters circling above my office building.


Self-‐refutation? -‐-‐ Someone recently searched the internet with the keyword "refuting Martin Kusch". The search engine directed her or him to my webpage. Thanks Google.


"Mehr Licht!" -‐-‐ There are no limits to philosophical darkness.


Prophets of doom. -‐-‐ In 1998 Harry Collins and I predicted (in our book THE SHAPE OF ACTIONS) that in the not-‐too-‐distant future customers in restaurants would be handed computers so that they could order their meals electronically. We also claimed that this would involve a deskilling of restaurant staff. Last week, in a posh hotel in Helsinki, I finally experienced this brave new world. The waitress knew how to carry the iPad to my table; but she had no idea how to use it. And when I ordered an item off the electronic menu – a slice of bread with olive oil and vinegar – it took her almost an hour to prepare it.


Better than sleeping pills. -‐-‐ Attending academic advisory board meetings, selecting fellows or grant holders, is the perfect way for me to get a good night’s sleep: although I argue all day I do not experience the adrenalin rush that debates at conferences or departmental meetings invariably bring on.


Kripkenstein and politics. -‐-‐ Most philosophers have not understood that there are solutions -‐-‐ as least sceptical solutions -‐-‐ to the problem of rule-‐following. That is why being an administrator in a philosophy department is such a frustrating task.


Advice to a student. -‐-‐ Stop your philosophical gongoozling and start arguing.


Ageing. -‐-‐ I am getting to the age where old friends really are old friends.


Kotimaa. -‐-‐ I do not have a country I feel like calling “my home” any more -‐-‐ at least not if that is to mean more than “the country I currently happen to live in with my loved ones”. But there is one country that almost, or almost almost, arouses a slightly stronger feeling. That country is Finland.


Exception. -‐-‐ Finland is the only country where long silences in conversation are almost never awkward.


Confession. -‐-‐ It is true: I wish for my Viennese department to be less obsessed with German philosophy as its central model.


The fragility of creativity. -‐-‐ In the writing of every conference paper there inevitably comes a moment of crisis: a moment when it looks as if I were utterly unable to deliver on the promises of my title or abstract. Until now I have always been able to overcome this type of crisis. But there remains the nagging suspicion that, sooner or later, my luck will run out.


Revelation. -‐-‐ The thought that my philosophical views might have real and bitter enemies never occurs to me -‐-‐ except when I read certain referee reports of my grant applications.


Half a Wittgensteinian. -‐-‐ "... the philosophical method is to first drive oneself mad, and then to go on and cure one's madness." -‐-‐ I am doing brilliantly as far as the first step is concerned.


What Althoff knew (and we should never forget). -‐-‐ The “coalition of mediocrity” will always be more afraid of being outclassed by first-‐class colleagues than of being associated with third-‐class departments.


This progress is exactly as big as it looks. -‐-‐ I have finally weaned my family off the Viennese New Year's Concert. We didn't even remember it was on.

Thought for the day 1/1/2013 Torontonian rhapsody. -‐-‐ “Another year, eh?” (It is high time that only a careful reader of my old aphorisms is able to decipher my new ones.)

Thoughts for the Day 2013

Documents

Transcript of Thoughts for the Day 2013