Twilight of the Idols partial reading notes on the "Maxims and Arrows".

Twilight of the Idols

Reading Notes

Preface

His project: to sound out the hollow idols of “eternal idols” in which people have the most faith. To show that they are trumped up and unreal. He speaks of the “question mark” of the revaluation of all values: a stepping back from values as they are and a distancing from them. “Every means is proper for this,” he says, “especially war.” War is a “great wisdom”; “even in a wound there is power to heal.” So this distancing is in a sense a wounding out of which a healing takes place. For N's own view, he states that there are more “idols in the world than realities”--that he sees them is his “evil eye.” He wishes to pose questions with a metaphorical hammer, to touch these hollow entities and hear their hollowness. He says this is a “delight for one who has ears even behind his ears, for me...before whom just that which would remain silent must become outspoken.” Hearing behind one's ears: to engage one's own hearing in a questioning stance. A habit of repetition is here in the writing: ears behind ears, the revaluation of values. I believe this is indicative of a certain way of interrogating the subjects at hand. Listening itself is listened to; values themselves are evaluated. To declare war means to destroy, to wound—and to let heal. To heal means first to initiate this stance of questioning, a double movement. First a disengagement (destruction, an uprooting of values) and then an engagement (a new beginning, a new formulation). Eternal idols are the target of this engagement—maybe even a triple engagement? First we see the idols, and N emphasizes that we don't always even see these idols; second we sound them out, hearing them speak to us; third we hear ourselves hearing them (ears behind ears), allowing us to speak this third relationship (to label an idol as an idol). As we can see, there is already an indictment of the inquirer implied. The inquirer himself becomes problematic; how we question things is open to determination, and how we question defines our relationship to what is questioned.

Maxims and Arrows

Idleness is the beginning of psychology (1): is there a reference to Aristotle's Metaphysics here? Wonder, for Aristotle, is the beginning of philosophy. “Even when we are not doing anything, we begin to wonder—through sight,” Aristotle says. Wonder is a perfect instance of the initiating of this questioning engagement/disengagement. [The history of wonder is the history of a war?] To sit still and not do anything is to do nothing, but naturally, according to Aristotle, we begin to wonder; to begin to wonder is to engage in a disengagement to the world. N specifically says psychology begins with idleness. To follow this reading, we would say that psychology begins with such a disengagement, a questioning. Idleness is an act as well, so we can say that the psychologist first has to act in a certain way, and take a certain stance. Also, in comparison with A, N is placing an emphasis on hearing rather than sight. To make a rather large leap: we can't see ourselves seeing, though sight can initiate a disengagement from the world. However, hearing the sound our idols make when struck, that which normally remains silent, brings language into our discussion. Our idols can speak, they are sounded out as idols. To say “idol”--to label an idol as an idol—is not simply to recognize or see an idol but also to speak it as it is. Only after and idol is struck and heard can we step back from our own hearing. This stepping back from our own hearing allows us to label an idol as an idol. In doing so, as we showed in the preface, we implicate the inquirer—and a psychology of this inquiry is what we've started.

We really know more than we can admit; most of us are not usually courageous enough for what we really know (2). What do we really know that we are afraid to admit? In following with our reading of disengagement and engagement, knowledge might be construed as a type of disengagement/engagement itself, itself a stance, a certain way of doing things. What we really know—what is perhaps closest to us at all times—is precisely this way of doing things. However, to allow this to become an object of knowledge (perhaps in a psychological sense), would mean to inflict upon ourselves precisely the wound that N mentions. To know how we relate to our own idols, our own way of doing things, would mean to disrupt them and allow this stable “idolatry” to become unstable. So, courage is needed. We do not willingly inflict wounds upon ourselves. Also, he states “only rarely do we have the courage for what we really know”--this means that only sometimes do we approach that state where we can be truthful, honest—

To live alone one must be a beast or a god, says Aristotle. Leaving out a third case: one must be both—a philosopher (3). Why? Without claiming to understand exactly why this is here, other than to say something about N's own experience with writing this book—something that goes beyond what we're trying to do here, though perhaps it's an aura surrounds everything we do, we can say the following. A philosopher is both a beast—wild, untamed, a questioner, a disruptor—but also a law-giver, a god, or a commander. I suppose this is as good an interpretation as I'm capable of, right now. What does this have to do with living alone? Perhaps we can elaborate, add a bit more context, maybe arbitrarily—but all in the hopes of coming to our own reading of the text. To disrupt or to command would both mean being alone—both involve a disruption. A synthesis of both would mean being what we would call a “philosopher”--but whatever label we use, the opposition between beast and god dissolves/synthesizes. We could even call that a “person”: what a person does is disrupt and then command; to do both is actually one and the same, part of the same process. This is embedded within the concept of individuality itself, perhaps: to know individuality we must synthesize both the shepherd and the wayward sheep.

“All truth is simple.” Is that not doubly a lie (4)? Well. Doubly? Why? All truth may not be simple: some of it might be complex. Where is the double? First, a truth may in fact be complex. This would be a literal reading. Second, the double—perhaps the quotes? The saying of it is a lie: a lie because the speaker knows the sentence is untrue but still speaks it. There are two senses of “lie” at play here. The first is a performative sense: the liar states what he or she knows to be untrue (perhaps with a reference to maxim 2, that what we really know needs courage: perhaps lying is easier). But there is also the sense of “lie” in the very sense of the statement. It is at odds with a more general truth, which is that truth is not simple. This second sense incorporates the first sense because it is a statement, but here we are concerned with the content of the statement itself. If all truth is simple, then the statement itself must be simple in itself, which it is not.  [i have no idea what any of this means and i dont know what N is referencing so whatever.]

I want, once and for all, not to know many things. Wisdom sets limits to knowledge too (5). Wisdom here is contrasted with knowledge. (What is wisdom? Perhaps knowing the right thing to do at a given point? An incorporation of experience into judgment?) But the negation emphasized in the maxim is interesting. Insofar as I do not want to know many things, how far do I have to go in knowing them first? Is this an absence of oblivion, where I would rather be in complete ignorance? Or is this a more tempered ignorance? More of a groping around in the dark, realizing that what you just touched—you don't want to touch again. How can a limit be set without first seeing what is beyond that limit, especially if the limit is relative to wisdom? This is the question. Does wisdom draw a line, saying “here, no more,” or does it take a step beyond that line and say “go back, no more.” I believe that with the tenor of the maxim we must assume the latter. The desire for not knowing implies that knowing is possible but that the limits enforced on knowledge, because of their origin in desire, must be considered relative (to wisdom—to experience). Compare this with maxim 2. In fact, both maxims 4 and 5 seem to give opposition to maxim 2. Maxim 2 encourages us to have courage for the truth, while saying that we only sometimes have this courage. Maxim four implies that the performance of lying can be the flip side of courage; maxim five implies that wisdom itself can limit our knowledge. Is this a submission? Maxim two: “Only rarely...” This only seems to imply that difficulty is involved in reaching knowledge, even that which we already know. It turns out that we even have a desire not to know many things. Perhaps these are the reasons why we “only rarely” have “the courage for that which [we] really know.” Are these examples? Desire for not-wanting-to-know, and lying?

In our own wild nature we find the best recreation from our un-nature, from our spirituality (6). I believe this is a statement on the fact that we are first and foremost spiritual. The declaration of war on idols that N insists upon would not be possible without our subjugation to idols in the first place. We would not be able to question these idols, to “hear them as hollow,” unless they were first there to begin with. We live with idols; they surround us. Our wild nature, on the other hand, is a “recreation.” What is our wild nature? In a sense, a negation of a negation. Our spirituality, which is a worldly-otherworldly, negates our real lives; by negating this, we affirm our real lives. Our “wild nature” must be then of this world, and it must disrupt our spirituality, our relationship to idols. This is what it does, not what it is. I believe we should refrain from saying what “our own wild nature” is and focus instead on its oppositional relationship to “un-nature.” N does not define “our own wild nature”--in fact, to say “our own wild nature” implies quite a lot. “Our own” implies both a group and a self; it implies a sharing but also a individuality. “Wild nature” implies the unconstrained, the opposition to the constrained. Why should the unconstrained nature be opposed to the “un-nature”? Is it more real? Or is this merely a corrective? In the opposition there is also a synthesis: we are both constrained and unconstrained; the unconstrained merely provides the best “recreation” from the constrained. But why call the constrained “un-nature” when the maxim itself, by using the term “recreation,” implies that we are usually constrained? Is it possible that we are usually not-ourselves? We should also note something else. A certain playfulness with concepts; we have only scratched the surface of this book but already we face a certain wildness with concepts, a deployment of ideas without discussion. In a sense, irreverence provides us with a recreation from our normal beliefs (from our normal lives?), whatever those happen to be. The term “recreation,” though, must again be emphasized: we are not talking destruction of our un-nature, but merely a break. Whether such a break could or should be permanent is a different question. Also, in the preface, he states that the whole essay is a “recreation.”

What? Is man merely a mistake of God's? Or God merely a mistake of man's (7)? Here we have a deployment of the irreverence in maxim above. Questions. Why would man be a mistake of God? But here we should take note of the reversal: the irreverence takes the form of a question. The “what?” makes it appear as if it follows as a conclusion. Well, in a sense it does—from maxim 6. An example of the wild-nature taking over and being allowed to ask the reversal of our spirituality.

Out of life's school of war: What does not destroy me, makes me stronger (8). Interesting to compare to maxim 5. “Life's school of war” I take as a type of wisdom learned through experience—but how to understand that with maxim 5, which states that we do not want to know many things. Would not wanting to know many things be an absence of courage mentioned in maxim 2? Understanding the maxim singularly is easy enough. He has already declared war, and through war, healing (see preface). This is in service of the revaluation of all values. What makes me stronger is knowledge; but there are limits to knowledge, for example, those that are self-imposed (maxims 4 and 5). Here perhaps we have a type of re-conceptualization of knowledge as something performed, something that I am bound up with in some way. If knowledge can wound me and thereby make possible my healing, then the focus should be on its performative aspects, in both the limiting case of destruction and the case of lessons learned. Framed in this way, the other maxims take on a new light. The point towards a dichotomy between protection and destruction: not wanting to know many things (wisdom) is protective against total destruction, while recreation, a break from our own normal spirituality (construed broadly as our normal relations with the world), is constructive precisely because of its non-lethal destructiveness.

Help yourself, then everyone will help you. Principle of neighbor-love (9). Again, the irreverence. Anti-Christian. A reversal of “do unto others what you would have them do unto you.” Or perhaps, “love thy neighbor as thyself.” I think this as simple as it appears: a psychological re-statement on what “really” happens. Or at least an alternative. But this principle is interesting in another way. Both are imperatives. The emphasis is on self-interest in N's formulation. Go further: he is critiquing the principle of neighbor-love, as if he is uncovering the psychological underpinnings of the Christian formulation. On the one hand he is stating a new principle; on the other he is implicitly saying that his idea of neighbor-love is the one really supporting the Christian conception. A subversion.

...and theres like however many million more maxims.