The Drunk

He may stumble upon you on a dimly-lighted street,

Zigzagging his way to temporary bliss or accumulating grief.

Lugging a dear bottle that is both half-empty and half-full,

He may suddenly approach you in profuse friendliness,

Stare at you searchingly with the blood-shot eyes of one lost,

Or pumped up with that kind of courage only alcohol gives, pick a fight,

Or not see you at all, busy as he is having a rare honest conversation with himself.

This is a man who, for now, wears his intoxicated heart on his sleeve.

More—he becomes a veritable artist of his muddled inner life.

He can reflect his sense of self in the shards of smashed windows,

Wax poetic in the recitation of the epic, incredible feats of youth,

Sing with the sublime happy confidence unattainable when sober,

Deliver a monologue about past failed loves and the doomed present one,

Or with his tears paint the inconsolable regrets of a man reduced to this

For a moment there he might scare you and you despise him (what a low life).

Maybe you pity him too—but rest assured there is some respite from the eternal return,

In deep and dreamless sleep and flashes of clarity, gifts of a smoke and bitter black coffee.

We Buy Books

We buy books that perhaps we'd never get to read
they will stand patiently on our shelves
shiny spines competing with one another for attention
like siblings arguing over some silly thing
demanding that the parent decide who's right
a book will sometimes even have to live
with the fact of an unwanted identical twin
bought with a sense of urgency, but by mistake
or with every good intention given as a present
and because as with chocolate or sex
you simply can't resist getting more
they will steadily grow in number (and you will lose count)
until, with a heavy heart, you'd have to put some on the floor
even pile half a dozen on the water tank in the toilet
on the TV and the PC, on things that should be less important
Yet most of them will be ignored
--and you will often say to yourself, only for the time being--
just as the beautiful things of everyday
like the blueness of the sky, the sound of rain,
or the hesitant smile of a perfect stranger
go unnoticed, consigned to the periphery of a life
that has been devoted to men and matters of consequence
or just like friends you left somewhere long ago
present to you now only as warm sentiments
as blurry faces reminding you of good times, good things
We try our best to get back to them
to those books that surprisingly spoke to us
of some of the thoughts, feelings and longings
we sometimes couldn't really tell apart
or articulate clearly enough or even admit we had
We know we won't stop buying more books
for though we do not always succeed
in getting to make and waste time on them
at least they'd still be definitely around
when the children no longer seek our opinion
when our friends return the favor of forgetting
when men and matters of consequence rule on our insignificance
to ensure a sense of presence other than one's own

On Control, Choices, and our Capacity to be Good

I've just turned 29 and living in a place always filled with young faces, I feel terribly old. The more I age the more I realize that there are just so many things that are beyond my control. And the more I think about it, the more I see that most of the things that determine what and who I am happen beyond, if not without, my consciousness and choice.

Two events, one marking my beginning and the other my end, perfectly fit this description. They can be said to be part of the human condition (that means every individual shares them with the rest of humanity). First, one's birth. We celebrate someone's birthday because that's an event in time that delivers a person (in)to the world. This, obviously, is not something that one chooses. I can't even say that this "happened" to me since I was not there yet, there was no "I" to say "Ah, I'm being born now." After your birth it will take a while for you to distinguish yourself from others and even to say I or your name (and even your name is not yours to choose). My birth is likewise closely connected to another event that I have no power over and yet concerns me in the most intimate of ways: death.

The German philosopher Heidegger says that one's being is being-towards-death, which is a way of saying that one is already dying from the very first moment of one's existence. I think it's something we instinctively know or feel and yet it's a fact that we try to forget and cover up as much as possible (by means of forbidding "morbid talk," using anti-aging beauty products, performing "death-defying" stunts, or doing extreme sports in order to "feel alive"). This is quite understandable since while we are all going to die, we don't know exactly when, where, and how. The whole thing is shrouded in mystery and that is rather frightful. Death will come like a thief in the night, unannounced and unwanted.

We choose neither our beginning nor our end. How about the things, events, and persons in between? The things that shape me in the most basic way are not of my own choosing. Where I'm born, the parents I have and the way I'm raised, my skin color, the religion I'm introduced to (or the lack thereof), the schools I attend, the culture and people that teach me their ways—all these I simply receive. There's more. Aging is something I may in some way conceal but never keep from happening. Our friends and family may change, relocate, or pass away and we can do little to stop these from coming to pass. And even if I carefully plan every detail of my life and the paths that it will take, "life happens"—often it seems, without regard for my goals and projects. This fact has been widely recognized and the ancient Greeks have a notion that accounts for it: fate. Every man submits to it and has his unavoidable lot. Believers, on the other hand, have spoken of Divine Providence or God's will setting out a plan and working in mysterious ways in history for our own (not always evident) good.

So it seems that from the cradle to the grave we have very little control over things. We began without choosing to and we will end most likely without wanting to. We receive particular features that may be our fortune or misery and our best laid plans can always be thwarted by forces beyond our comprehension and control.

Is there anything that is actually in our hands? Two things come to my mind: our attitude towards the situation we find ourselves in and the way we treat others. We can try to make sense of the mystery of receiving life and of departing from it; it's our choice to uncritically accept received culture and convictions or step back and reflect on them; it's up to us to either accept misfortunes and injustices with resignation or struggle to improve our condition. Moreover, one can strive to treat one's family and friends with kindness and respect, while keeping in mind that small acts of goodness (a smile, a kind word) to strangers go a long way. One may never be in total control of one's existence and all the complex realities therein, but one can always strive to be good.

Close it with a word of thanks

While my dissertation is the outcome of many years of individual work, its coming into being would not have been possible and that process would have been more arduous if not for the help and presence of the people I have met and who have stayed with me along the way. These words that I read now can only recognize the debt I owe them.

My thanks go first and foremost to my promoter, Prof. Luc Anckaert, whose encouragement and guidance proved to be indispensable for the completion of my work. I remember fondly some of your words during our very first meeting, when I told you about the work I have done previously, comparing it to some parts of your book A Critique of Infinity: “People from different parts of the world can sometimes have the same intuitions,” you said. I am happy to have been able to come to this country, this city, and this Institute to work with you and with others who may not always have the same views as me, but who sincerely and tirelessly pursue truth and understanding.  I am also grateful to Prof. Desmond for his insights and always sound advice, to Prof. Burggraeve whose texts have been a source of much enlightenment and the conversations with whom have been as pleasant as they were stimulating, and to Prof. Verhack and Prof. Visker whose critical remarks pushed me to delve deeper into the thinkers I have been studying. Thank you too, Prof. Cools, for taking time to read and examine my work and share your expertise here at my defense.

I would also like to thank the university’s Interfaculty Council for Development and the Higher Institute of Philosophy, which granted me the scholarships and allowances that enabled me to pursue my MPhil and PhD degrees here in Leuven. Thanks also go to the staff of the Institute, the library, and of the university’s International Office: your constant and silent service has been invaluable to my studies and research.

To my family, specially to my son Saki, who never allowed their incomprehension of the kind of work I have chosen get in the way of their love and support, thank you.

Lastly, I would like to express my deepest gratitude to my friends, few but faithful, who made the burdens of the PhD more bearable and filled the grayest of autumn and winter days in Belgium with a little more hope and cheer.

Let me close with the opening lines of Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities, which I think capture in some way my Leuven years: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way . . .” Wherever we may end up, I am glad and fortunate to have crossed paths with all of you.

Homecoming

The smiles almost flew like butterflies

The faces, heavier now, radiated

The handshakes were warm like leather gloves

A few hugs here and there with bodies known

Pecks on the cheeks, quick the way they should be

We sit down and wrap our hands around perspiring bottles

As though we’ve been here together all along

Then the stories of the old days are weaved once more

Of places dark in my memory

And names free like flotsam

And feelings familiar and far away

And words words words

That were uttered once and now come back changed

Then they tell you about themselves

And you nod slowly

Then you tell them about yourself

And words words words rush out like blood

And you gather them all together with trembling hands

And your mouth is parched

Then they look at you and smile simply

And you smile back

You nod slowly

14 March 2013
Leuven, Belgium