Stupid wisdom

The most he can hope for, X tells me, is a kind of stupid wisdom, or wise stupidity, that’s the conclusion he’s come to: to go so deeply into his stupidity that he can embrace it; but even that seems beyond his grasp, because that, he imagines, would be wisdom itself, wouldn’t it? So maybe the only way he can gain legitimacy is by approaching himself with the utmost suspicion. But is he really that stupid after all, he asks, or is it just another show? Is he showing off his stupidity as if it were wisdom? How does he even know if he’s stupid or not? he asks. If he were really stupid he wouldn’t know it, would he? So maybe he’s secretly wise, he says, though he very much doubts it. Maybe he should get a guinea pig, he says, to keep him company.


One response to “Stupid wisdom

  1. And then: ‘perhaps the appeal of disappearing and dispersal is also, for you, a game and what you dislike is only the extent of your presence, your heaviness for others as you have some say over their fates. What you dislike is that place you occupy and even as you write of a liberating weariness, of that falling where you tumble beneath your own work and the possibility of working, is still play, still play-acting. Only one in possession of himself would write thus. It is a kind of reversal of those literary toreadors, of Hemingway with his bullfighting or Mailer and his pugilism.’

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