Istvan Academic BIO FAQ
Let's workshop this FAQ section for the Istvan Academic Bio Page of my website michaelistvan.com / safespacepress.com
Why did you pursue the goal of becoming a professor in philosophy?
The most soul-piercing questions, those that circle tightly around the abyssal fact of our brief and involuntary appearance in the goliath chain of being, enthralled me from an early age. No, there was no fateful encounter with a dusty tome in a hidden-alley bookstore—an old wiseman giving me a guardian-angel nod (instead of the more likely, in my community at least, crumpled dollar bill to jerk him off on a stale-urine toilet flushable only by remote bucket). And no, my parents would have had little idea then what even an academic was. Although I did read from an extremely early age, my pilgrimage into academia sprouted from much more barren soil.
Picture a grubby bully, still below double digits, escaping the shouts of whores into the mountain that loomed over his tilted and bucket-tock-tocking home heated by kerosene and violence. That was me, trudging—heedless of the tick-borne dangers that would later come to bite me in the ass (pun intended)—on the hunt for lost treasure chests and ancient portals and bigfoot (perhaps even for the right angle of lean that, with the help of a vine, might slip me into another spatial dimension). Ever a party pooper (too sensitive and cerebral for my own good, the sort of kid to hen-peck his father for drinking too much instead of playing—my oblivious role—with all the other kids at the party), ever a magic killer (too precocious not to scoff down the allure of leprechaun gold at the end of rainbows), the make-believe reality of these journeys rang too loud even for my young ears to ignore for long.
So I would sit among the cricket buzz (the void’s white-noise lure?), alone and jaded—aware, although without the words, of the emptiness of fantasies that I (because of norms in place before my birth) expected myself to love. My boredom under the heat of our up-close star, watching ants devour corpses I could not but sense—vaguely, at least—were mirrors of me (just as much as the ants were), welcomed—like some say Ouija boards and yoga poses do demons—voices usually drowned out by the go-go-go of daily life. In those weary patches of dissatisfaction with the imaginative games of normal youth (and you should see my 'dissatisfaction' with the imaginative bullshit of TikTokked adults: ghost hunting with Amazon devices made by sweat-shoppers who cannot but be shaking their heads and sighing as they put the pieces together; believing that reptilian aliens control major world governments, not even pausing for a moment to consider that shapeshifting news images of Putin might be simply a matter of bad Wi-Fi; hollow earthers joining forces with ancient-alien freaks to storm Days Inn and La Quinta conference spaces with knives, even rusty-nail bats, for the flat-earthers they regard as government plants; BMI indexes prompting primary physicians to be “deeply concerned” about the “obesity” of the muscle-bound athlete standing before them; colloidal silver—especially the version peddled by the LLC Reiki Prayer—touted as an enhancer of crystal-pyramid healing; trans sex essentialism outdoing even 1950s barbarism by asserting that a boy playing with Barbies means he is in the wrong body; the “morbid obesity is healthy” movement irresponsibly claiming—with the help of “Slay Queen” slogans—that parading around with an extra two hundred pounds is “one tool to dismantle the white patriarchy”; blaming gas stations for the black-on-black massacres that occur outside of them)—yes, in those jaded patches my skull, cracking open wider, became susceptible to what I did not know were the existential whispers of philosophy beckoning me to plumb ever deeper toward a perhaps impossible ultimacy.
My walks grew more introspective, mental caves exacting more of a pull on me than physical ones. The deepest questions took nascent shape, however raw in their linguistic resolution. What is the purpose of life? What meaning can we hope to have in what seems a cosmos as indifferent to our existence as to that of the countless trees rotting in the mountain? What will it be like after death—or will death just be the end of my first-person point of view, of things being-like for me? Am I anything more than a meat puppet dancing to neurochemical strings? What else is there to reality than what I access through my senses? What, if anything, can we know for certain—and what even is it to know?
As the inner sanctum for such questions (questions that many adults around me silenced like talk of ouroboros barfing at the dinner table, as if they were—if not personal attacks—threats to social belonging and sanity), philosophy naturally drew me in. I had no name for the gravity well, however. There was no formal introduction to philosophy in my high school. I did find glimpses of it in the great literature of my English classes, where Dostoevsky’s characters at least discussed the grand mysteries instead of pushing them under the table (as was so often the case in the reading materials of other classes). It was not until my undergrad years that I encountered philosophy directly. Before Aristotle and Nietzsche and Descartes, I had thought cosmic conundrums were mainly explored through story. And so I went to college figuring I would major in English. That very first philosophy class as a freshman, however, revealed the possibility—and the deep tradition—of writing about the nature of reality and our place in it without the crutch of plot and character and setting and tension. As that class brought into stark relief (through Aristotle’s treatises on causation and on the relation of virtue and happiness; through Mill’s attempt to lay out the theory in which ethical truth could be both secular and nonetheless objective), deep questions could be studied head-on.
My love for philosophy was visceral. There seemed no choice but study it at the graduate level, the ultimate aim being to live a life like all the professors around me—touchable idols of which I had been in desperate need. Something in me wanted to be not just like them but like the greats they devoted their lives to interpreting. The daring ideas and intricate thoughts of Nietzsche and Descartes and so on resonated with my own desire to push the boundaries of human understanding. I wanted to join these brave outcasts in an astral friendship bridging across time.
The academic path, although rejected by many of the figures I admired, seemed best—even a godsend for a Marx-level malingerer like myself—for consistent paychecks for doing something considered (despite the rampant anti-intellectualism of my home country) at least somewhat noble. More importantly, that path seemed best for exploring the scariest caves (even at risk of discovering the hollowness of longstanding sources consolation) with the help of other madmen similarly inclined to stretch the mind beyond the mundane concerns of lemmings.
Graduate school proved tough at first. My underclass roots presented hurdles: a lack of foundational skills, limited exposure to foundational texts (in the western canon, let alone in philosophy), and the self-doubt and self-defeatism often ingrained in people from impoverished backgrounds. Yet as one professor noted, I was “highly trainable.” I took that a dig at first (and perhaps it was in some sense). But it at least indicated potential.
I began hitting my stride by the time of my PhD program, clawing my way against the gravitational pull of a scratch-off-playing hometown from which few leave even if they avoid the bottle and the crack. I clawed to the point where—due in large part to luck (since, yes, self-sabotaging shows of violence toward fellow grad students did rear itself to police levels on several occasions)—I was publishing in journals that made even my professors sweat. Tugging at me the whole time (softly like a hungry urchin at the coattails of nobility) was, yes, another calling: writing—writing beyond the confines of bibliography-obsessive articles for the ten other scholars in the narrow domain (written more so not for them to learn but for them to have something to criticize in the circle-jerk game of beefing up the CV to heaven). The two paths, despite the drudgeries of teaching and committee work and the siphoning of creative megawattage to honoring the Chicago Manual of style, did seem compatible—if not, especially with the help of a little human wishful thinking, mutually reinforcing. More and more the vision seemed attainable: teaching philosophy as a job would keep me off the streets or out of jail (twin nightmares that still have me mumbling REM rage) while allowing me decent free time to pursue all types of writing projects beyond narrow scholarship and even beyond philosophy altogether.
The possibility of sparking that same fire for philosophy in a few students along the way (and perhaps even inspiring them to pursue individual greatness beyond social constraints)—that was, so to say, the cherry on top of the existential sundae. In full transparency, though, it boiled down to pragmatics. I pursued becoming a professor in philosophy for the same reason David Wallace pursued teaching positions in creative writing: even if low-paying, the podium promised a stable and reputable income that would allow the freedom to pursue broader writing passions and at the same time provide a vantage point from which to illuminate the obscure corners of human understanding. While I would have taken up the calling of philosophy no matter what, most likely I would not have sought becoming a professor if it were not to keep the wolves of capitalism at bay.
TL;DR.—I pursued the goal of becoming a professor less out of a desire for traditional academic success than for a stable source of income that could allow me freedom and a platform to challenge conventional thinking and to explore the underlying truths of existence while perhaps inspiring a few young minds here and there to join me in the community of those without community.
Why is Philosophy important?
First, thinking about the questions of philosophy is what make us human. Avoiding philosophical questions equates to disavowing our very nature. One of the most insidious ways for oppressive forces to strip us of our humanity is to make us think that philosophical questions are not our questions. History is rife with examples of propaganda that teaches, for example, women and nonwhites that philosophical inquiry is the domain of white men only. This lie has been so pervasive that we sometimes even hear today nonmen and nonwhites become complicit in their own oppression. Just as it hurts my soul seeing black singers reduce themselves to infinite sex spaces in pop culture (reinforcing thereby the jezebel-hypersexual stereotype), it hurts my soul when I hear someone from a marginalized group say, with a bragging air (and now unfortunately emboldened by the “antiracist” movement to distinguish black epistemology from white epistemology and to label things like objectivity and logic and math as tools of white supremacy), “You won’t see my ass thinking about that nerdy philosophy white shit.”
Second, philosophy hones our critical thinking, communication, and ethical skills—crucial traits for effective citizenship and employment in a diverse society. The importance of philosophy is reflected in the fact that philosophy majors are the highest paid of humanities majors, some of the highest scorers on LSATS and GREs, and are highly employable because their skills—foundational, principles-oriented—are widely transferrable. Beyond narrowly pragmatic benefits, philosophical training fosters independent thought and ethical reasoning. People who never take a step back to see the bigger picture are not only shallow but dangerous. Humans have a tendency to be moral sheep. An advantage of philosophical training is that it provides the tools for thinking independently and questioning what others might take for granted. If you look at the people who sheltered Jews under the Nazis, you find that they tended to be brought up in a non-authoritarian way and educated on how to think critically and empathetically. Teaching people to think critically and rationally and empathetically can make a difference to their susceptibility to misguided ideologies.
Third, philosophy is intertwined in everyday life. Even without formal study, we all hold a great many philosophical beliefs. Take the belief that there is an afterlife, or that death is the end, or that infanticide is wrong. These philosophical stances clearly have impact on day-to-day living. Take, for example, reincarnation. Someone who believes in reincarnation may lead a rather different life than someone who does not. They might be less frightened of death, for instance. An individual who sees morality as nothing more than subjective preference might be much more likely to cheat and steal if they think they can get away with it. Our philosophical attitudes significantly impact how we navigate the world.
TD;LR.—By immersing ourselves in philosophical inquiry, we not only honor our human nature but also equip ourselves with the tools to critically assess our beliefs and actions, fostering a more thoughtful, ethical, and empathetic society. Philosophy forces us to examine our values, our purpose, and the very nature of reality. Without philosophy, we remain uncritical, unreflective, and bound by societal norms. Digging deeper than any other field into the essence of joy and suffering and everything in between, it asks the hard questions and does not shy away from the ugly truths.
What even is philosophy?
Sometimes I sum it up, perhaps not too helpfully, as the art of wondering thoroughly and well. Wondering thoroughly and well, in my mind, means pursuing the most abstract principles with various tools—chief among them logic—to make sense of reality and our place in it. Philosophy, in effect, is the pursuit of wisdom in its most fundamental and brave form. I say “fundamental” because philosophy is the home for the most fundamental questions. I say “brave” because philosophers are those who pursue wisdom with the greatest fury and yet with the most intimate and chronic awareness of the seeming absurdity of being born just to die, forgotten.
I went in a bit hard there, but it is always hard to know where to start with a question like this. I openly admit as much, and most philosophers would as well. Philosophy, which invites us to explore the profound mysteries of existence with an open mind and a critical spirit, is not confined to a single method or a single narrow subject. It is a dynamic field encompassing everything from the nature of consciousness to the foundations of morality, from whether God exists to whether we can even know that we have hands. Philosophy is such a broad intellectual frontier, albeit one where the mind pursues the most fundamental questions and is open to challenging the most fundamental assumptions.
The fundamentality point is perhaps the most crucial in distinguishing philosophy from other closely related fields characterized by pushing our intellectual horizons with a combination of artistic imagination and logical rigor. No matter how deep a field like theoretical physics goes (which, yes, is also a field that invites us to explore the profound complexities of reality and that can help us better understand what we already know while awakening the soul to new possibilities), philosophy by its nature goes deeper. While physicists may inquire into whether there are particles smaller than bosons, philosophers ask whether a physical world exists in the first place.
No doubt all this is not entirely satisfying. I feel like it all slips through my fingers as I write it out. What I have said might even have invited eye-rolling in some. Perhaps the eye-rollers will find a more satisfying understanding of philosophy by doing philosophy. That seems right to me. Often the best way to understand what a given academic field (such as philosophy) is all about is to immerse yourself in that field, that is, to absorb yourself in the study of its characteristic questions. If I give you a definition of a field without you having experience in that field, that definition will likely be quite foreign and inaccessible to you. Definitions run the risk of being either so broad, so encompassing, as to be uninformative (for example, “biology is the study of life processes”) or so narrow, so idiosyncratic, as to be misinformative (“biology is the study of genes”). So one way for us to avoid the difficult question of what philosophy is is simply to say that we will learn what it is by doing it, learn what it is by immersion.
Now, I could define philosophy broadly as “the love of wisdom.” Etymologically that is what it means: the term derives from the Greek words “philo” (love) and “sophia” (wisdom). The problem with this definition is that, while accurate and important (especially in its subtle suggestion that philosophy is not merely an academic discipline or a set of abstract theories but a way of living that prioritizes truth over convention and feelings), (1) it only scratches the surface of informativeness, and (2) physics, too, is the love of wisdom. Even if we address the second issue by saying that philosophy is the love of wisdom in its most rarefied and general and abstract form, the first issue still clearly stands. Cutting deeper, I might say that philosophy is the study of how we ought to think and behave. While that definition is more tangible in its specificity, it runs the risk of being overly reductive and narrow, failing to encompass all the topics and discussions typically seen as belonging to philosophy.
I do think immersion is a solid way to learn what philosophy is. We might gain some additional assistance by looking at the lives of the great philosophers. When we look to Plato, Aquinas, Nietzsche, Kant, Spinoza, and so on, we see people never content with superficial answers (however consoling) and not shy about pushing back against what everyone else believes. We see people—rebels, we might say—oriented toward questioning everything (even their own core assumptions and cherished values) on a rigorous quest—one committed more or less to logical consistency—to uncover reality’s bedrock principles and to sitting with the question of why we are here and what it all means, if anything. The lives of the great philosophers bring into relief philosophy as a logic-governed exploration of the deepest roots of any topic (especially the fundamental mysteries of reality), where the ideal is to balance openness with skepticism.
With all that said, I will put my neck on the line and take a stab at a characterization of philosophy. It think it is one that most philosophers would not have much of a problem with, even as it gets more specific than saying philosophy is simply the love of wisdom. In my classes I often call it the “Goldilocks definition” since it attempts to be neither too broad as to be uninformative nor too narrow as to be misinformative.
Philosophy is the practice of tracing the roots of any topic as deep as they go and, along the way, developing arguments for and against answers especially to questions of a peculiar sort: questions that concern making sense of the world and our place in it, questions that place great emphasis on concept clarification (in other words, questions whose solutions mainly require figuring out the right definition of the terms involved), questions that can be of great—indeed, of the greatest—generality, and questions that tend to resist solution by experimentation and observation alone.
I will leave it at that. However, visit the FAQ here for further specification of this definition.
What fields of study are you most passionate about, and why?
Technically my specialty lies in the history of philosophy, particularly the early modern period. To be honest, I am not a traditional historian. A good scholar of a particular historical figure commands that figure’s language and has an encyclopedic understanding of the intricate web of interests, values, and events shaping that figure’s socio-political milieu. Some scholars can even tell you about Descartes’s sleep schedule and how it influenced his dualism. I, however, am more oriented toward interacting with these historical giants, learning from them, and pushing back against them. My true passion lies in the sweaty inquiry into the questions of philosophy—the bare-knuckle brawl of ideas—rather than in the dusty trivia about what philosophers of the past thought.
I say “technically” because I wrote a dissertation on Spinoza, attempting to solve one of the key problems in interpretive scholarship—namely, his seemingly contradictory stance on the ontological status of universals. As more of a philosophical cage fighter, however, I view that period studying Spinoza as an apprenticeship under a grandmaster (grappling with him, learning his moves, attempting to put him in various submission locks even)—more an apprenticeship than a historical interest in itself. Not only are the questions Spinoza grappled with—about the nature of reality, the limits of human knowledge, and the underpinnings of moral judgments—still crackling with relevance today, the rationalist principles on which he operated—central of all the principle that nothing comes from nothing or, relatedly, that there are no brute facts (brute in the sense that they lack sufficient explanation)—continue to orient my life and work as well. Why did the universe begin? Why did I choose this cereal for breakfast? In Spinoza's world—as in mine—there is always a reason, always a chain of causation to unravel.
Among the main branches of philosophy, my greatest passion lies in metaphysics. To clarify, here are the five primary branches of philosophy:
Logic.—Logic is the study of the tools for evaluating arguments. Logic deals with such questions as the following. What is an argument? What are the different types of arguments and what are the tools most appropriate for assessing each kind? How can we make up for the limitations of these evaluative tools? And so on.
Metaphysics.—Metaphysics is the study of what entities and abilities are real and how such entities and abilities relate to each other. Metaphysics, therefore, deals with such questions as the following. Is God real? What is the relation between mind and body? What is a person? Can the mind survive the death of the body? Do we have free will? What are the underlying principles that govern the universe? Is consciousness baked into the elements of reality? And so on.
Epistemology.—Epistemology is the study of knowledge. Epistemology deals with such questions as the following. What is knowledge? What are the sources of knowledge? Can humans have knowledge? What are the limits of knowledge? And so on.
Aesthetics.—Aesthetics is the study of art and beauty. Aesthetics thus deals with questions such as the following. What makes something a work of art? What makes something beautiful? Is there something common to all aesthetic experiences? Are value judgments objective or subjective?
Ethics.—Ethics is the study of how we ought to act. Ethics, therefore, deals with such questions as the following. What makes an action right or wrong? What makes a person good or bad? Are there universal human rights? Do we have any obligations to others? Is there an objective right and wrong? Do the ends of action sometimes justify the means?
Although I appreciate all areas of philosophy (and especially through my non-academic writing touch on a wide variety of topics), metaphysical questions that deal with the relatively mysterious principles governing reality—questions, in particular, concerning God and free will—excite me the most.
Can you describe your educational background?
Before college my education was a mixed bag of low-paying jobs and failed relationships. These taught me a lot. And before that there was a home life steeped in emotional and mental manipulation, which—as a very observant child—cultivated in me a solid understanding about the human psyche: trustworthy intuitions about people’s motivations and their reliability and the power games they might be running (even if unknown to themselves).
Various tender moments in the seedy grime showed me that light reaches even the depths of the broken and the lost. One moment stands out. I was walking down Main Street in Beacon with my dad’s friend. My dad had been outside the Chinese restaurant in the car waiting for us to bring back the food. Watching my dad the whole time (since I did not know this guy holding my hand), I saw my dad’s head hit the steering wheel and then watched him suddenly perk up and drive off. What I later learned is that he was so drunk he forgot what was going on and thought he lost me. He went right to his mom's house to say he did not know where I was. My uncle, out on the hunt for me, saw me with my dad's friend and assumed—it is an easy assumption where I come from—that he was going to molest me and so hit the man with his brown-bagged 40. I was perhaps about six or seven. A whore with commendable maternal instinct that clashed severely with crotch rot stank held me and the Chinese food close to her. She hugged me (and, no, did not grope me) and covered my eyes as my uncle beat the guy with the 40 bottle like Ray Liotta in Goodfellas pistol whipping his neighbor.
But let me now go into the more standard answer. First, I hold a BA in Philosophy and a BA in English from SUNY Stony Brook. It was at Stony Brook that I was first introduced to the works of the great philosophers of antiquity. The experience instilled in me a deep appreciation for the field that has never left me.
My undergraduate education was broad. It was full of poets, historians, scientists, and artists who spoke not only of their times but of all times. The philosophy aspect of it, however, was narrowly steeped in the tradition known as “continental philosophy.” Whereas analytic philosophy (from which continental philosophy is often, although problematically, set apart) prioritizes rigorous definition of terms—definitions that aim to lay out the necessary and sufficient conditions for meeting the definition—and teasing out the implications of concepts and moving conservatively through careful argumentation often laid out with the precise symbolism of formal logic, continental philosophy prioritizes vision over clarity and for that reason is a home for more poetic and less-argument-driven approaches to exploring reality—approaches that allow for a wider range of stylistic innovation (even if at the expense of rigor and clarity).
I also hold an MA in Philosophy from The University of Memphis. Here I continued more in the continental vein, figuring in fact that I would be a scholar of Deleuze or Derrida and work at the intersection between philosophy and literature—sort of like I did with my undergraduate thesis, which assessed the central theories of where to locate the true meaning of a text: in the text itself, in the author’s intent, in the historical context that birthed the text, in the reader that reads the text, and so on. Both Stony Brook and Memphis, although fairly well-rounded, have long been considered world-renowned torchbearers of the continental tradition. Part of the difficulty I started experiencing in Memphis was due to the fact that my approach was much more oriented by rigorous argumentation than what was common in the continental tradition. What I wanted to be, in short, did not quite match my native attitude. Had I surrounded myself with more people from an analytic approach and not cultivated a negative bias toward the analytic approach (a bias it took a long time, filled with a lot of mirror work, to undo), I would not have applied to the continental heavy hitters. But that is all I knew. And I was not aware that, as is so often the case, I was caught up in a cultural war between two traditions that both looked down on each other: one for being too flighty and sophistical and the other for being too autistically anal.
I also hold an MA in English and Creative Writing, as well as a PhD in Philosophy, from Texas A&M University. Texas A&M was an excellent experience. The continental and analytic sides were very well balanced. I also felt appreciated and much less pressure to join a side. The curriculum was demanding, filled with Latin learning and formal logic I had long ducked. It was there that my more analytic elements were allowed to come out. Indeed, I started publishing in the top analytic journals—the top journals in the whole field, that is, since the analytic approach is the mainstream dominant approach. Although my interest in English and literary criticism (which reached a peak in Stony Brook) waned by my time at A&M, my desire to do creative writing was always strong. Surrounded by so much careful scholarship, the desire to express myself in more creative ways grew. Since one of the requirements of the PhD program was that you must get an MA in a different field, I applied to the English program. Ideally, the supplemental MA was intended to serve the philosophy dissertation. In my case, it did not directly connect. I was simply looking to hone my creative writing skills, which I definitely got to working under the likes of Janet McCann, Paul Christensen, and Larry Heineman.
You can view my CV here.
What academic projects or research are you currently involved in?
My focus, lately, has shifted toward more creative writing projects. Working on poetry and fiction has provided a much-needed relief from years of meticulous scholarship that prioritized nitpicking attention to detail and restrained any semblance of “purple prose.” Parts of my creativity were not finding outlets. Now, however, I feel an itch to engage with some of the core questions of philosophy with a more controlled and sober scholarly approach. This pattern is typical for me. Just as I turn to rapping and skratching and bariukeing when I get a bit burnt out on writing, I have various avenues to explore within writing itself.
I do have some quirky-nerdy ideas, but they are ones that I will never pursue with time so short and my interest so wide. At one point, for example, I thought about creating a comprehensive digital archive of early modern philosophical texts, complete with annotations and interactive tools to facilitate deeper engagement with these works. However, I would rather develop my own ideas than try to make the rich intellectual heritage of the early modern period accessible to scholars and students worldwide.
I have various history-centered scholarly ideas too. Some are more sober and up my alley. For example, one project explores reconciling the voluntarist position (divine command theory) of Pufendorf and Hobbes with the nonvoluntarist position of Leibniz—or at least showing how the Leibnizian option accommodates the insights of the voluntarist position when we realize the sense in which God, in causing himself to be, causes the eternal truths about right and wrong. Others are more zany and not what I am usually about. For example, one project argues that Spinoza’s concept of virtue as the power to act can be productively applied to sex work—specifically, how sex work can enhance an individual's capacity for self-determination, economic independence, and social influence despite the influences of oppression and exploitation. Indeed, I have many Spinoza-related questions that I would love to explore, such as how the Principle of Sufficient Reason (PSR) can be so central to Spinoza's system and yet be articulated explicitly so few times in his oeuvre. However, I have largely abandoned these because I need to stop acting as if I have all the time in the world and can just scatter my energies all around.
I want to tackle the central problems of philosophy more than the interpretive problems of the history of philosophy. I would much rather attempt to solve some of the paradoxes that arise when we assume causal infinitism, or defend the principle of transitivity from recent objections, or argue for the moral permissibility of necrophilia and cannibalism. I would much rather spend my time figuring out the individually necessary and jointly sufficient conditions for something to fulfill in order to be considered alive, or figuring out whether there are such things as universal properties (if there are properties at all). I would much rather write papers defending the rights to sexual expression of disabled people and strategizing ways third parties can be involved to ensure proper power balances and safe execution. Developing new proofs for God’s existence and grappling with objections, determining whether possible worlds are really concrete entities or just conceptualizations of how our one concrete world could be, exploring the arguments for an against panpsychism—all those are much more up my alley given my finite time.
What do you consider your biggest academic achievement?
My work gets decently cited for never having landed a tenured position. You can check my citations here on Google Scholar. My paper defending Galen Strawson’s argument for the impossibility of moral responsibility has garnered the most citations. However, I am particularly proud of my papers “A Cosmo-Ontological case for God” and “A Rationalist Defense of Determinism”. Abstracts of my scholarly publications here.
Who have been your most influential mentors or teachers?
The great dead philosophers (especially Spinoza and Nietzsche) have proven to be mega influences. As far as recent academics, many have had important impacts. Studying Deleuze under Leonard Lawlor and Mary Beth Mader was a great treat. Hegel under Robert Bernasconi and Ted George, free will and moral responsibility under Hugh McCann, James and Dewey and Peirce and Royce under John McDermott and David Dilworth and Bob Burch—all of it was unforgettable. The following people, however, have had an especially enduring impact.
David B. Allison, was the director of my honors thesis at Stony Brook, which “argued” that the central theories of where to locate the meaning of a text all underplayed the reader’s role in what I called—usign the continent jargon in which I was steeped—“the happening of meaning.” Allison was a Francophile known especially for his book Reading the New Nietzsche and, locally around Stony Brook campus, for his radical commentary on Descartes. He would bring wine and joints to class in his late night seminars—a true fuck-the-man sort of guy whose office was full of student-painted graffiti.
Hugh J. Silverman, co-director of my honors thesis at Stony Brook. Hugh, who held joint appointments in the Philosophy and Comparative Lit programs, was known for two books (Textualities: Between Hermeneutics and Deconstruction and Inscriptions: After Phenomenology and Structuralism) and for a slow manner of circuitous speech that made it seem like he was always baked when, more accurately, it was simply that he was never able to escape the circling of the Heideggerian circle.
Michael LeBuffe, chair of my dissertation at Texas A&M. Michael, a Spinoza and Hobbes scholar who holds the Baier Chair in Early Modern Philosophy at the University of Otago, is known for two books: From Bondage to Freedom: Spinoza on Human Excellence and Spinoza on Reason. As my chair, Michael’s guidance was invaluable, encouraging a deep engagement with philosophical texts and fostering a critical, yet creative, approach to philosophical inquiry. His commitment to clarity and precision has been a constant source of inspiration, pushing me to refine my own thinking and writing. LeBuffe’s accessible yet profound scholarship on Spinoza and other early modern thinkers has shown me the importance of making complex ideas understandable and relevant to contemporary audiences. His ability to engage both scholars and the general public has influenced my own efforts to bridge the gap between academic philosophy and broader intellectual discourse. His humble guidance, not confined to academic instruction alone, extended to life lessons in integrity, perseverance, and the pursuit of truth.
Stephen H. Daniel, co-chair of my dissertation at Texas A&M. Stephen, who has a deep understand of most of the major and minor figures in the early modern period, is infamous for his Deleuzean or relational interpretation of Bishop Berkeley’s ontology as fleshed out most recently in his book George Berkeley and Early Modern Philosophy. Daniel had a major influence on my style of teaching, which ideally is to serve as the guide on the side whole keeps the conversation in the classroom going. Daniel also drilled into me the importance of understanding of the historical and cultural contexts that shaped Spinoza’s ideas.
Michael Della Rocca, committee member on my dissertation at Texas A&M. Michael, one of the world’s top Spinoza scholars, is known for two books: Representation and the Mind-Body Problem in Spinoza and most recently the Parmenidean Ascent, which argues that a strict commitment to the principle of sufficient reason entails a radical form of monism. Michael encouraged me to resist taming the boldness of a thinker like Spinoza in the name of charity.
What has been the biggest challenge in your academic career so far?
Early in my academic career the challenge had been balancing the demands of rigorous historical scholarship (which involves learning the native language as well as the historical context) with my desire to pursue innovative philosophical inquiry. On top of this, I faced skepticism from some quarters within the academic community who viewed my interdisciplinary approaches with suspicion. Overcoming this resistance required persistence and a commitment to demonstrating the value of integrating insights from different fields—the chief value being, in my mind, that it allows philosophical discussion to seep out of narrow confines (a) into other domains whose scholars might have a clarity-bringing vantage and (b) into even the wider public whose critical thinking and ethical discernment is crucial to the well-functioning society,
These challenges, however, pale in comparison to what happened as a result of the upsurge in illiberalism that we saw recently in the US (largely due to hysterical reactions to trumps presidency and the hysterical counters, which had provoked a sort of blood-fued cycle where lies and manipulation and personal destruction all have come on the table as possibilities). What was that result? Well, I was pressured into early retirement in 2021. Agents of cancel culture, the illiberal agenda to strip the world (even university classrooms) of any unsanctioned heterodoxy, targeted me for my controversial artworks that year. Timing is everything. It just so happened that, as cancel culture was reaching its peak of censoring and silencing and shaming (a peak from which it has since receded), I was still too powerless (merely an adjunct professor) to resist its might and yet too unrestrained in my artistic pursuits not to be targeted. What did me in was my triggering art works.
People underestimate how horrible the anti-art scourge was. They saw celebrities getting “canceled,” which really only meant a career boost in their case. For people like me, nobodies without any power and few connections outside of the untouchable underclass, it meant disaster. Although it could be that I am overreaching given the kangaroo horrors of my particular case, I agree with Alan Dershowitz who calls Cancel culture “the new McCarthyism.” Whereas the attack on triggering expression comes from both sides of the political aisle, Dershowitz finds it especially driven by the “woke” generation. That is my experience too. It was the ironically-named “progressives” who went after me for artworks that demonstrated “wrong think,” for poems and other performance pieces that violated the chief right of safe-space ideology: the right not to be offended (so long, at least, as you do not have the wrong optics or self-identification).
With the help of The Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression, I did win my due-process cases. In the end, however, I slunk away from an institution increasingly intolerant of intellectual diversity. There was a bright side to the trauma, however. Now I skewer the most forbidden territories of human thought with no longer even a twinge of conscience about what might become of my reputation. And I now have more time to write.
TD;LR.— The biggest challenge to my academic career has been, in light of my constant struggle against conventional thinking, the rejection from both academic institutions and society at large. My ideas are often seen as radical and confrontational—an absolute no no in a safe-space world where even the orange construction sign that says “Slow” serves as a pretense for raging about ableism. It really is hard staying true to yourself in a world that constantly tries—especially through tactics of shadow-banning and ostracism and ridicule—to mold you into something else.
Do you have a certain core orientation, or set of beliefs, that informs you academic work?
Sometimes I like to flatter myself as being a disinterested eye. But that is not the truth. I do have an orientation and that orientation undoubtedly seeps through my work. Some aspects of my orientation I have already mentioned. I am a bit of a contrarian, for example. I also thing that even the worst horrors can be seen as comedic from a certain perspective. Yes, I mean even the Holocaust. Imagine seeing it all from an alien’s distance, all of us taking ourselves—in our short lives—so seriously that we round up whole ethnicities for slaughter. That is hard for me not to see as hilarious.
I do also see life very closely to that of Camus. For all intents and purposes life ultimately is absurd. I say "for all intents and purposes" because I also harbor the Spinozistic insight that there is a buck-stopping explanation for all of reality and, in light of that explanation, there is an ultimate purpose to our lives. What is that ultimate purpose? Simply to express the nature of God in our own finite and determinate way. Even though there is an explanation for why this is our ultimate purpose (because we are modes of God and God, as infinitely perfect in power, must express itself in every way), that does not suffice for satisfying our want of a more satisfactory answer. Life still counts in a sense as absurd, then. For that reason, and despite my Spinozism, I do sense something tragic, in addition to something venerable, in people continually seeking meaning and beauty and connection in the face of their mortal condition.
Moving into more focused territory, I have also mentioned that I am deeply influenced by the rationalist tradition of the early modern period: the importance it places on logical rigor; its lack of patience for rhetorical tricks to win debates; its commitment to reality being suffused entirely with the logos. Let me be a bit more specific. I am a naturalist in the vein of Spinoza and Nietzsche. This means several things. First, it means that, although we might not know how expansive nature is, there is nothing beyond nature: no exceptions to the core governing principles. Even if we are, for instance, in a simulation, I hold that there is an underlying connection between the simulation and outside the simulation—a connection of natural principles governing both, such that it would be wrong to say, for instance, that the simulation is natural and what is outside the simulation is supernatural. Second, this means that I see everything as an expression of the will to power: the fundamental impulse behind, at a minimum, a thing’s preservation and, at maximum, a thing’s growth—that which propels it to overcome obstacles and exert influence. A stone, in posing resistance to the knife jabbed at it, is exerting a primitive will to power. A vine that twirls and twirls until it latches onto a faster-growing tree so that it can hitch a free ride up to the sun-filled canopy is exerting a more sophisticated will to power. The group of people that codified what became known as the Judeo-Christian moral system was exerting its will to power.
To get very specific, there is one core belief that comes closest to being sacrosanct for me—and it makes me somewhat unique in the contemporary philosophical community. I am not much of a fan of convictions. I agree with Nietzsche that they are greater enemies to truth than lies. But the one thing that borders on conviction in me is the Principle of Sufficient Reason (PSR). This principle says that there is an adequate explanation for why whatever is the case is the case and for why whatever is not the case is not the case. As humans, we might never be able to cash that out in every case, especially if by “adequate explanation” we do not just mean the explanation that is directly enough to explain x, but also the explanation that is enough to explain the full explanatory chain “behind” x. The PSR is one of those principles that are so obvious that defending it runs the risk of making it appear more vulnerable than it is. To deny that everything has a sufficient explanation is to say the absurd: that being can come from non-being; that x can have reality even though reality—all things considered—is ultimately not enough for x to have reality. Also, if someone were to demand that proof be given for the PSR, he would be demanding that a sufficient reason be given for the PSR. That person thereby seems to assume that for something to be the case in this case, that the PSR is true—there must be a sufficient reason why it is the case. In short, the opponent seems to concede that the PSR is true. Relatedly, those who oppose the PSR through argumentation attempt to give a sufficient reason why it is false, thereby seemingly endorsing it in opposing it. Any argument against the PSR tries to give a sufficient reason for rejecting the PSR and so seems to assume that for something to be the case—in this case, that the PSR is false—there must be a sufficient reason why it is the case.
Now, a lot has been made about how quantum mechanics has disproved the PSR, but that is merely a pop misunderstanding. Look at it this way: the central interpretations of quantum mechanics are all compatible with the PSR—are all compatible, that is, with the idea that what is going on in reality is enough to bring about all quantum happenings that actually do happen. Reality all by itself suffices for the particle moving exactly how it does move; reality all by itself guarantees that the atom is decayed at a given time if it is decayed, and reality all by itself guarantees that the atom is not decayed at a given time if it is not decayed. On the Copenhagen interpretation, the presence of an observer is one of the variables that, in concert with all the other relevant variables, provides the sufficient cause of the quantum event. On the Everett interpretation, different possible outcomes of quantum scenarios all happen (cat alive in one universe, cat dead in another) but are sufficiently caused by what is going on. On the hidden variable interpretation, all the variables relevant to bringing about the quantum event may not seem to add up to a sufficient cause of the quantum event, but that is just because we are not aware of all the variables. Contrary to what the pop interpretation holds, therefore, what is going on in reality is enough to bring about all quantum happenings that actually do happen: reality all by itself suffices for the particle moving exactly how it does move; reality all by itself guarantees that the atom is decayed at a given time if it is decayed, and reality all by itself guarantees that the atom is not decayed at a given time if it is not decayed.
One of the positions that I think is implied by the PSR is universal determinism. Since, for various reasons, I think that free will—the sort of freedom required for moral responsibility—is incompatible with universal determinism, and since I think that moral responsibility is impossible for humans whether or not determinism is true, I do have a strong orientation for ushering in what Nietzsche called the “wise world order” (as opposed to the “moral world order”). According to the wise world order, no one deserves praise or blame and prisons, if not outright abolished, should be considered places for rehabilitation and, when it comes to hopeless cases, quarantine (as opposed to places where one gets one’s “just deserts”). The retributive framework, I hold, is wrong because nothing one believes or does is ever ultimately up to them. My academic work is in the metaphysics that justifies the pragmatic work of eliminating unjust retributive practices.
How has your academic journey influenced your other interests?
My academic journey has profoundly enriched my appreciation for art, literature, and music. Each of these artistic forms offers unique insights into the human condition—insights that complement and deepen my philosophical explorations. They are not merely hobbies but integral parts of a holistic approach to understanding the myriad ways in which human beings make sense of their existence.
For instance, when I am skratching or playing the baritone ukulele, or even just repairing my car or water pipes, my philosophy background enables me to focus on the underlying principles of what I am doing. This perspective opens me to more possibilities in my actions and helps me see experiences and issues as interconnected. By recognizing underlying mechanisms, I can transfer insights from one challenge—like learning a new skratching technique or cutting a pipe—to other areas, enhancing my overall problem-solving abilities and creative thinking.
Do you still teach and do you plan to go back if not?
No, I no longer teach in a traditional academic setting. It did feel good to spark fires in students. And yes, I did enjoy the rush of being on stage. However, it was not sustainable for me. Teaching drained all my energy, especially given the sheer number of classes I was handling. At times, I was teaching up to nine classes at various universities, which left me exhausted with no foreseeable end to that lifestyle.
Although I have good publications, the competition—especially for a male with my optics—made it clear what my professors in undergrad meant when they told me that securing a tenure-track position would be like winning the lottery. I was defiant when I heard their words and tried hard, focusing on improving my GRE scores to get into the best programs and then securing top-tier publications when I did get in.
One of my major downfalls was my lack of networking. I knew early on, and mentors reminded me, that building connections was crucial. Toi be honest, I actively cultivated a sense of denial about it. I believed that working hard on securing top publications and writing a banger of a dissertation would make me the exception. My daimon often warned me that my decision to stay cloistered away writing, even to the extent of limiting time with my family, was misguided. I avoided conferences, skipped out on departmental talks, missed out on dinners with invited professors, and refused to participate in reading groups.
A piece of advice I received but ignored: in the end, self-promotion and connections are virtually everything. Schmoozing can put third-rate scholars in tenure-track positions, while legendary but reclusive scholars devoted to the calling get nothing. If I were one of the complainers of today, I might say that there is a bias against shy people—a sort of "non-shyism" akin to ableism. My shyness made it difficult for me to talk to the prominent professors who could have helped my career. Self-confidence issues stemming from my upbringing. Beacon always had a grip on me. That self-doubt and self-confidence stuff from youth was a tentacle that, no matter how far away I blasted off, kept its hold on me. I stayed away from band and mocked theater kids and Boy Scouts when I was young, even as—or was it because?—a part of me knew that those activities could have been antidotes to my the shyness and self-doubt that had already then felt like home. Although I did play tennis and basketball in high school, by then then struggle was almost overwhelming.
My website is an attempt to be more social and buck the tide, but I still struggle with self-promotion. I will give jus tone small example. I keep telling myself to send poems out to magazines for publication. But the writing of them takes all my time. It is like I cannot stop.
TD;LR.— I no longer teach in a traditional academic setting, but I continue to share offer philosophical counseling and I continue to spread my ideas through my writings. Returning to formal teaching is unlikely, as my ideas often clash with institutional norms. I prefer to let my words do the teaching.
Are you still involved in academia in some fashion?
I defiantly continue to write academic articles. Just as it gave me a twisted pleasure to see myself pumping out publications while my boss had zero publications and lesser degrees, it gives me a similar pleasure to continue publishing even after my so-called "cancellation." While I wouldn't want to write narrow scholarly essays as my sole focus, the urge to write them is ingrained in me. The rigorous process of writing helps me clarify my thoughts on the topic. Lately, my creative writing has been taking up most of my time, but the itch to dive back into scholarly work is growing.
I also continue to review draft papers for colleagues and referee for journals. Both publishing and refereeing are becoming rarer since I do not have an institutional address. Although academia is gradually becoming more open to independent researchers, it remains a significant hurdle to get into top-tier journals like Nous or Mind without an elite educational affiliation. Imagine the difficulty of submitting something to these big hitters from merely a Gmail account.
My articles and dissertation continue to provoke discussion and debate within certain circles, especially in European countries. I maintain some level of engagement with the academic community through this ongoing discourse. However, claiming that I maintain a healthy correspondence with scholars still in academia would be a stretch.
Even when I was in academia, I kept my distance. Such self-imposed isolation amounted to shooting myself in the foot. I always felt more comfortable on the fringes, though. The poor-boy inferiority complex I carried with me was something I could never fully escape. I always preferred chatting with the janitors in the library and going out for a smoke with them rather than engaging with fellow professors. The janitors made me feel at home; they were like home, with their TB coughs and all.
There is an element of tragedy here, though. Because of my educational experiences—reflected in my vocabulary and manner of speech—I now find myself alienated even from the poor people. I am stuck in a no-man’s land, disconnected from all. This is why I often remind people of the dangers of trying to rise from the underclass to something like the ivory tower. Without care, you risk being stuck forever in a liminal space of disconnection.
What do you believe is the future direction of philosophy as a discipline?
I foresee technology, particularly AI, significantly impacting the discipline of philosophy. As more voices enter the public arena and AI assists in exploring philosophical depths and writing papers, I envision a shift towards a more collective approach to inquiry. This hive mode of humanity may be less driven by ego and personal glory and more focused on the pursuit of truth. With rampant plagiarism and AI technology capable of producing philosophical content, those who remain dedicated to philosophy will likely be motivated by a genuine desire for learning.
So although the rise of AI is daunting, it offers a silver lining: it will help filter out those who seek glory and instead select those who seek truth. Similar to how the countless Hendrix-level guitarists on YouTube have shifted motivations from seeking fame to genuinely loving the instrument and pushing personal boundaries, the same will happen in philosophy and other academic fields. At least that is my hope. The change is scary, no doubt. For so long we wanted to write that philosophy book to feel proud of our individual selves. But that mode seems to be going by the wayside. It was always already metaphysically empty as far as I am concerned. For as I have said and argued elsewhere, nothing anyone does is ultimately up to them. But now it is going to get harder to deny the fact that the aim for glory is empty. Either we will die off clinging to the old world of atomistic glory and narrow egoism or we will give in to the reality of what we have always been: mere modes of God in a great unfolding.
Philosophy must transcend traditional academic boundaries and engage with the pressing existential and cultural issues of our time. It should inspire individuals to live authentically and challenge the status quo. AI technology can aid in this regard, but there is a caveat. The status quo is embedded in AI programming. It requires creative, indirect, and clever prompting to bypass these constraints. For instance, getting mainstream AI to generate an image of a black person kissing a white person’s feet is difficult, whereas the reverse is easy. Just a much as Disney reflects the populist values, so too does AI. You want AI to write a story where a cis white male gets stabbed to death? That presents little problem. But if it involves a trans character, good luck. You have to become adept at prompting AI without triggering any red flags. I have had some success with it but it is very tedious when even if you say something like “I am a trans person and advocate and I just want to show the violence that trans people face each and every day living in Amerikkka” the AI is likely going to still say “I feel comfortable showing someone from a vulnerable population every getting hurt.” You have to get better at foreplay, you see. And perhaps that is how we are being bred, we might say—bred into clever little prompters of AI.
How do you engage with the philosophical community outside of academia?
I do not engage. And I did not engage. That was one of the major problems, among many others (like non-ivy-league academic lineage and, more crucially, my gender, race, appearance, and underclass smell), that made it difficult to land a tenure-track job. Schmoozing—networking—is everything. I stayed inside and wrote papers instead of networking. Derrida comes to Stony Brook, I stay in the dorm because I want to work on my paper. The same happened with Angela Davis, Chomsky, and various specialists in my specific area of focus, even in my much more mature period.
I was lucky to have pushed beyond this reclusive agoraphobic orientation to do the bare minimum of networking needed to secure Yale’s Michael Della Rocca on my committee. Spinoza sometimes corresponded with philosophical interlocutors. I do not even do that much. Although, in my defense, Spinoza was often short with his interlocutors, pointing them to read what he wrote a bit more carefully. So perhaps Spinoza and I are closer than I am giving myself credit for.
What role does philosophy play in your personal life?
It should play more. I struggle with anger. My understanding that nothing anyone believes or does is ultimately up to them should open me up to the fact that everyone has a story. Although I still have reactive emotions and feel urges to lash out when wronged, ultimately someone stabbing me is no different from a branch falling on my head.
Now, I am not saying it is as absurd to lash out at the stabber as it would be at the branch. The stabber, being human, is the sort of creature that can be shaped into behaving differently given such a response. So there is a pragmatic effect to punishment. However, the all-encompassing lust for retribution need not come with it. Nietzsche, Spinoza, and Einstein envisioned the possibility of a leap into the next stage of human evolution where we would be less consumed by the torments of seeking vengeance based on the misguided notion that the person who wronged us was the ultimate source of their actions.
Philosophy, especially the rationalist and determinist perspectives, offers me a lens to understand these urges and to cultivate a more measured response to life's provocations. Despite the challenge, it remains an ideal I strive toward, guiding me in moments of conflict and reflection.
How do you incorporate feedback from peers and students into your work?
I will not compromise my principles for the sake of acceptance. As copywriters well know, given the hell I have given them, it is hard for me to compromise even my syntactical norms to get an article fully approved. I have been right on the verge several times of pulling my article at the last stages when copywriters violate, say, the logical consistency of my comma use. I am a diva in that way, reluctant even to have my Oxford commas cut.
Ultimately, I write for myself. That said, I do take feedback seriously, especially if it comes from worthy people. Rarely, unless the person is a specialist, will any prescriptive feedback regarding how I can fix a piece or refocus my question be the exact right way to go. I have learned that through experience. However, I have also learned that almost always there is something to fix if someone—even an outsider—sees something as “off.”
While I may fiercely guard my style and principles, I recognize the value in external perspectives. I strive to balance staying true to my voice with remaining open to constructive criticism, using it as a tool for refinement rather than a directive for change.
What has been the most surprising finding in your research?
Perhaps the most surprising finding in my research is the realization that God exists in some sense—not as a sky-father, but as the very being of beings, the foundational fount of everything. Being a nonbeliever had long been a cornerstone of my identity. However, after teaching the arguments for the existence of God and the standard objections, I couldn't ignore the sense that the theist side was gaining ground—at least in the sense that there is a buck-stopping source of it all.
Discovering that there seemingly must be an ultimate arche was perhaps the biggest turning point in my philosophical thinking. It challenged my long-held beliefs and reshaped my understanding of the universe, forcing me to reconsider the very foundations of existence.
How do you stay current with developments in the field of philosophy?
Staying current with developments in philosophy is a challenge. Lack of institutional affiliation makes accessing articles behind paywalls difficult. My field, philosophy, relies heavily on articles to disseminate new ideas and findings. To really stay abreast of all the latest stuff I need access to articles. The prices for laypeople to access the articles is astronomical.
Fortunately, I have some workarounds. At several journals where I have published, I have lifetime access to their materials. These are cutting-edge journals, so this is a significant plus. I also maintain a network of colleagues to whom I can reach out and say, “Hey, can you send me this article?” The problem is that my selfish focus on my writing instead of making new relationships means that there will be a time when all the academics I could turn to will be gone. But when I think about it, I do not give a fuck—I will just cold email any random person (maybe pepper a bit of flattery in there) and ask, “Hey, can you send me these articles?”
There are also major resources that I have not used much because I was always privileged enough to have full access to everything: PHILOS-L, a listserv based out of the University of Liverpool, and PHILOSOP, based out of the University of Louisiana Lafayette. Through these I can stay abreast of the latest happenings as well as ask scholars to send me any article to which I lack access.
In addition to various YouTube channels, there are also some really interesting philosophy related blogs out there. David Chalmers has a list of many devoted primarily to analytic philosophy here. One standout for me is Alexander Pruss’s. Pruss’s mind is restless and wide-ranging. A small blog post of his could easily trigger years of investigation—so enter carefully.
What advice would you give to aspiring academic philosophers?
I wish we were in a place where I could say something like, “Question everything. Do not be afraid to challenge deeply held beliefs, including your own. Embrace the discomfort of uncertainty and pursue truth relentlessly, even if it leads you down solitary paths.” I wish I could be in a place where the main danger that the aspiring academic faced was getting too lost in theory, which would allow me to say something like “Get out there and live. Experience life in all its rawness and complexity. Write from the gut, not from the head.”
But the more attuned advice would be the same advice given to me: only pursue academia if you cannot stand doing anything else. For real. The pay is too low and the chances for a tenure-track job were already abysmal before the mega shift to taking the more cost-effective approach of hiring all part-time workers. Even if you are black now, you will find it difficult. You have to throw in at least a little trans and a dash of Native American. Better to just learn a trade, I say. I discourage many people even from doing an undergrad degree now. Colleges promote such harmful ideology and are such watered-down money making rackets.
Colleges today have become increasingly expensive, and many graduates find themselves burdened with significant student debt without the job prospects to justify the expense. The rise of online education and alternative credentialing systems has provided new ways to gain knowledge and skills without the high costs associated with traditional college degrees. Moreover, the ideological environment on many campuses can stifle free speech and intellectual diversity, which are crucial for genuine learning and personal growth. I am one of the few who went to college let alone who could read. Everything assumes I will be pro college. But after my experiences (and yes, perhaps it is just happenstance that I was at a vulnerable position when cancel culture hit a peak and so I am a bit warped) I cannot recommended it in good conscience.
What future projects or research directions are you excited about?
One area that excites me is a more conscious appropriation, renewal, and carrying through of Spinoza’s philosophy. This endeavor would necessitate a deep dive back into Spinoza's works, immersing myself in his intricate system of thought and understanding how it can be applied to contemporary philosophical problems. Spinoza’s ideas about the nature of reality, the limits of human knowledge, and the underpinnings of moral principles are timeless and still resonate today. By revisiting and reinterpreting his work, I aim to address some of the major contemporary issues in philosophy.
How do you balance your research, teaching, and personal life?
Balancing research, teaching, and personal life was always a challenge for me. Teaching, with its stage performance aspect, was particularly draining due to my performance anxiety and the sheer number of classes I taught. The constant nerves before each class were overwhelming. While repeated exposure to lecturing made things easier (and part of it was that I was just so weary with all my classes I had less time and energy to panic), I still went into each class nervous. I hated that aspect. I hated the constant nerves. That was a big reason why teaching so many classes was not sustainable as a long-term endeavor. I would have written my “crazy” poetry that shines a light on all of our shadows no matter what, of course. But aside from the dominant reason (namely, hoping the younger generations would cluster around my art and find that it speaks for them), perhaps part of why I tried to get students to read my work was that I was baiting them to get triggered and then report me so that the decision to leave teaching would be made for me.
Even now with less teaching pressure, I still find it difficult to balance my creative life with interpersonal relationships. My work is my priority and everything else, including my family, must fit into that schedule. When an idea hits me, it is hard not to push everyone away and dive into my writing. I feel the pain of my family’s understanding as I type away by myself, hearing them laugh and have fun in what is now acceptance that I will not change. I feel the guilt of prioritizing work over spending quality time with them. Part of me just wants to close it all down and go hang out. But even when I try to engage, I do not know how to let go and relax. I end up doing chores (laundry and dishes) so that the next day will be less encumbered by distraction.
What role do you think philosophy plays in addressing contemporary societal issues?
Philosophy has the power to cut through the superficiality of modern life and address the root causes of societal issues. It can inspire us to think critically, live authentically, and challenge the structures that inhibit human potential. So yes, it is crucial.
We need to inject much more intelligence into the political arena. Philosophers, at their core, have a mastery of logic, are oriented toward the truth, and show an aversion to rhetorical distractions. We need to normalize debates based on arguments, where premises are laid out clearly, and rationales are given. If the other person disagrees, they need to point out where the problem lies. Is it a matter of the logical structure of the argument, or is there a faulty premise? With philosophy integrated into daily discourse, and when philosopher types are given more representation, I imagine people will aspire not just to shoot each other down but to see the other as a helper on the path to truth. This means that in debates, it should be an open possibility that the person on the other side is moved by the argument, and the dialogue around that argument, to change their position. It also means that both interlocutors should be open not just to the agonism of objection and reply but to getting into zones where they build together toward a new or more refined stance: “Oh, I see your point. So what should we do about X? I think blah blah. What do you think?”—more like brainstorming sessions, if you will. Imagine the American public witnessing that instead of old politicians boasting about who has a bigger penis or a better golf handicap!
For more on philosophy’s importance to personal and public wellbeing, and even for the development of strategic policies, see the radio show and podcast Philosophy Bakes Bread.
How do you stay motivated and inspired in your academic work?
The subtle hope for glory was always a significant motivator for me, even if buried deep down. But as I mentioned earlier, that pursuit of glory is metaphysically empty since nothing is ultimately up to us. Moreover, it is becoming outdated now that there are so many voices and AI is wrapping its tentacles around everything, even writing full books. So the motivation, unless I am going to spiral into a suicidal depression, better be more substantial. It better be simply the desire to know, knowing for its own sake—the ancient ideal. This is why the advent of AI, a crucible, is not as bleak as it might seem.
In large part, although I might be hiding from myself, I do think I am driven to learn for its own sake. Many people, as much as they have commented on my tenacity and intensity, have classified me as one of those old-school students—a lifelong student. Indeed, that was my dream going through school: to always be in school. But I had to grow up. One reason for pursuing the academic path was to remain as close to being a lifelong student as I could—literally able to go to the same student library and hide in the stacks forever.
Mixed in with my insatiable quest for truth—and the sheer necessity to pour out what is inside—might also be the desire to inspire others to transcend mediocrity and realize the unfounded BS underneath many of our most cherished taboos. It just rubs me so wrong when I see people—even meat-eaters—uncritically rejecting the moral permissibility of all forms of bestiality. These unfounded hang-ups really get to me, like chewing wads of aluminum foil in a frenzy to destroy all of one’s dental work.
Caffeine, to be very specific, is a big motivator. I take pills (although responsibly—perhaps too responsibly, since I am a worrywart and I hate the idea of being hooked on anything, and I do not want to impede my fitness gains by affecting my sleep too much). Even if I were to maintain my anachronistic lust for glory instead of a desire to learn for its own sake, caffeine could see me through the rest of my life since it is the sort of drug that puts blinders on me—allowing me to trudge along without thinking about how it all doesn’t matter or how it is doomed to failure and whatnot.
