Forty-One

This blog post serves as a not so gentle reminder that I should practice what I preach: when I turned forty, I wrote: Once things settle down, I hope to finally start writing that own philosophical work. Things didn’t settle down. Perhaps that’s the excuse. Still, compiling my own philosophy is still one of my main goals for this (and the next) year. I’ve been working on it on (and more off) for a good year now. The theoretical framework is in place, the notebooks are filled. It’s time to get serious. If Rousseau did it when he was forty, why can’t I? The lives of most of these French 17th, 18th, and even 19th century philosophers are filled with pain and misery. Montaigne got five kids but only one made it to adulthood. He himself did before he turned sixty. Pascal died half a year away from reaching forty. His sister Jacqueline barely made it to thirty-six. Descartes—died at 53—had a daughter while staying in The Netherlands who died at the age of five. What do we do when we read…