The Art of Indefatigability

I finished reading Mircea Eliade's Parisian journal earlier this year after many evenings in the park, and it was a transformative experience. There are many facets of Eliade's personality that interest me, but there is one that rises above the rest: his seemingly limitless capacity to consume and create words.

It is clear that Eliade, a prolific writer and religious historian, is an intellectual who simultaneously attracts and arrests. On the one hand, he charms us with his inexhaustible erudition—what is the demon that feeds his genius? In his world, nothing is too obscure for his appetite. He devours books as if they were glasses of water. He possesses the uncanny knack of making connections between what appear to be totally unrelated fields of knowledge. This is the mark of that rare individual who has successfully combined intelligence and creativity into a potent formula for intellectual indefatigability. How remarkable it would be to sit with him and experience the genesis of a single thought.

On the other hand, we are seized in his presence. After all, it's virtually certain he would run intellectual circles around us, and we wonder how he would respond to our inadequacies. Would we embarrass ourselves trying to maintain his stratospheric level of discourse? More important, would our meeting throw us into a state of despair? After all, many of us are simply incapable of devouring books like water. We might be tempted to give up and throw all our manuscripts away.

In "Beginnings of a Friendship," Emil Cioran gives us his own account of Eliade's productive capacity:

Everything negative, everything that promotes self-destruction on the physical as well as spiritual plane, was then, and still is, foreign to him—whence his inaptitude for resignation, for remorse, for despair, for all feelings that imply the bogged-down, the rut, the nonfuture. Again, I may be going out on a limb, but I believe that if he has perfect understanding of sin, he lacks a sense of it: he is too feverish for that, too dynamic, too hurried, too full of projects, too intoxicated with the possible.

Then there's Cioran’s account of Eliade’s lectures at the Faculty of Lectures at Bucharest:

I attended his lectures whenever I could. The fervor he lavished on his articles was fortunately recognizable in his lectures, the most animated, the most vibrant I have ever heard. Without notes, without anything, swept on by a vertigo of lyric erudition, he was a fountain of convulsed yet coherent words, underlined by the spasmodic movements of his hands. An hour of tension, after which, miraculously, he did not seem tired and perhaps, indeed, was not. It was as if he possessed the art of indefinitely postponing fatigue.

When you sit down to read his journals and spend a few hours immersed in his world, your curiosity heightens and you never want to leave. Every word, every gesture becomes a springboard for another thought. Eliade's desire to devour the world is dangerously contagious, and if his musings impel us to move forward, they do so tragically: no matter how hard we try, we will die undone. In the journal Religion, Matei Calinescu provides his own translation of some of Eliade's thoughts from the Portuguese journal:

My capacity to understand culture, in all its forms, is limitless. I wish I could express just one percent of what I think and know as nobody else does. I don't think that a genius of this complexity has ever been encountered—at any rate my intellectual horizons are much vaster than Goethe's.

Intellectual horizons vaster than Goethe's? When I read this, I can only conclude that we are dealing with either a very serious person or a person who is not serious at all. After reading his Parisian journal, I am apt to believe the former.

How can we possibly compete with people like this? Perhaps the answer lies in understanding that everyone—even Mircea Eliade—dies with more work to be done. No one that I know wakes up and tells himself that every task has been completed and every problem has been solved. This is one of the many reasons we might get out of bed in the morning, even if we don't feel like it. And when we die, someone picks up where we left off. There is no way around this.

Eliade is obsessed with time, and perhaps we can interpret Youth Without Youth as his way of dealing with the ever-shrinking space of our existence. The trick is to recognize our journey toward understanding not as a struggle among ourselves, but as a struggle against something beyond ourselves—that immaterial and elusive entity we call time. But the act of naming something does not mean we apprehend it any better. And if you're crazy enough to compete with Eliade, you would be wise to tackle Goethe instead.

Three Great Directors

I thought I would take some time to talk about a few of my favorite directors.

My high school music teacher introduced me to Woody Allen in the spring of 2000. The first Allen film I watched was Husbands and Wives. I watched it with the girl who would become my summer fling before I headed off to Cornell. I don't think she liked the film very much. She's married with two kids now; much can change in a decade. Every time I watch this film, I think of her and that magical summer after graduation. Maybe this is one reason the film has a special place in my heart.

When many people think of Allen, they think of him as a comedian who made funny films. I don't care much for his earlier stuff. I prefer his darker material; e.g., Crimes and Misdemeanors, Husbands and Wives, and Match Point.

Ingmar Bergman heavily influenced Allen, and many of Allen's films demonstrate this. These direct and indirect references compelled me to explore Bergman's oeuvre, starting with his most famous work: The Seventh Seal. This is probably the best film to start with, if you are not familiar with Bergman's work.

My favorite work by Bergman is a film called Winter Light. Everything about this film resonates with me. The cinematography. The acting. The austerity of the scenes. The bleakness. There is no doubt that most do not have the patience for this film, which makes me love it even more. It is slow and plodding. Nothing much happens in the way of plot. One reason I love Bergman—and Michelangelo Antonioni—is that they were uncompromising and authentic. I remember reading an interview with Antonioni. He said that when he wrote, he wrote for himself. He didn't see the point in writing for a particular "audience," since in his view, there wasn't one. The result is that the films may not be blockbusters, but they will almost certainly affect a small group of lucky people in a very profound way. I consider myself one of those lucky people.

I only discovered Antonioni a couple years ago. I believe I stumbled upon him while reading an article on Bergman. I can't remember exactly. Like Bergman's work, Antonioni's films are often difficult and deal with heavy themes. One interesting difference I have noticed between these two directors is their treatment of God. Bergman relates the disorienting absence of God, while Antonioni avoids God altogether, assuming His nonexistence a priori. Each of these approaches has its merits.

Ironically, both Bergman and Antonioni died on the same day in the summer of 2007. I remember hearing about Bergman's passing on NPR as I drove through Ithaca, NY. The interesting thing is that both Bergman and Antonioni would refuse to give this irony meaning, laughing it off as mere coincidence, as I do.

When I dive into the work of artists, I find myself thinking of them throughout the day, imagining how they would respond to various situations. When you are affected by someone's films (or any type of art, for that matter), you can't help being influenced by them to some extent, developing an intuition about their thoughts and actions even after they are dead. This is also why—after this intuition has been rightfully attained through time and patience—it's worth revisiting previous films and experiencing them on another level. I recently did this with Antonioni's The Passenger.

My favorite Antonioni film is L'eclisse. It's difficult to put into words how this film makes me feel. It contains one of the most beautiful and tranquil scenes I have ever viewed—the Verona scene, filled with the beautiful sounds of Giovanni Fusco.

In sum, I would start with The Seventh Seal for Bergman and then graduate to his "trilogy" from the early 1960s: Through a Glass Darkly, Winter Light, and The Silence. For Antonioni, I would start off with his "trilogy": L'avventura, La notte, L'eclisse. But then again, perhaps it's better to start with Blow-Up or The Passenger. I'm not sure.

I have no formal training in film. I've just felt my way around over the past few years. I don't know what is right or what is wrong when it comes to film, or to what extent the idea of a good film is an absolute that rises above subjectivity. It doesn't matter much to me, as long as I keep finding well-known and lesser-known gems that get me through the day.

The Program of Breathing

In order to get out of bed in the morning, we can't think too much. It seems that the ability to do anything at all hinges on a certain degree of automatism. Emil Cioran writes the following in Drawn and Quartered:

My doubts have not been able to get the better of my automatisms. I continue to make gestures to which it is impossible for me to adhere. To overcome the drama of this insincerity would be to renounce, to annul myself.

As soon as we begin to think or even question the motivation behind any action whatsoever, a small rift appears between intention and execution. At first, the rift is barely perceptible, welling up on rainy days or Sunday mornings. But this inchoate awareness feeds on itself until the rift becomes a chasm that spoils everything. At this stage, even the smallest gesture becomes an exercise in absurdity, and words are nothing more than meaningless abstractions.

When it first becomes clear that we feel out of place in the world, a natural reaction is to swim against the current and question ourselves. After all, most of us were raised to believe in something that gives us a reason to do things: family, religion, justice. As soon as such notions become suspect, we might become angry at the world and discover the cathartic power of invective. The pen can do wonders, and there is no doubt that giving form and coherence to our thoughts can quell our most destructive impulses.

But this protracted orgasm of the word cannot last forever. Over time it weighs us down and uses us up. No longer infused with the desire to annihilate ourselves, we begin to recognize the impotence of anger and the supremacy of silence, as Cioran writes in On the Heights of Despair:

After having struggled madly to solve all problems, after having suffered on the heights of despair, in the supreme hour of revelation, you will find that the only answer, the only reality, is silence.

What do we do when every action feels contrived and useless, when the nature of every response is contaminated by a sense of arbitrariness and contingency? There is no easy answer, and there is no way to rid ourselves of that feeling of torpor that insinuates itself into every activity. At this point, the world becomes nothing more than a stage we use to entertain ourselves.

But we can use this malady to our advantage and shape it in a way that benefits us. First, we must recognize the automatism that underlies our movements and rise above each act by detaching ourselves from the act itself. Each time we get up in the morning, make ourselves a pot of coffee, go to work, we should perform the activity without believing in it and by refusing to lose ourselves in its uselessness. By injecting lucidity into the mix, we shed the automatism and consequently elevate ourselves above the act.

Second, we must learn to see the beauty in every futile gesture, every pointless task. When there is no burden of meaning to weigh anything down, we liberate ourselves from the merry-go-round. By doing this, we also rid ourselves of any possibility of disappointment. This alone is a strong reason to disbelieve in the redemptive power of hope.

Third, we must praise the purifying properties of inaction and defend it against the insults of busybodies. In order to guilt human beings into doing things, humanity deemed sloth an impure state, a problem to be dealt with. We must reclaim sloth as our own and worship it as the virtue that it is. Restlessness lies at the root of every catastrophe, as Cioran writes in All Gall Is Divided:

Violent actions are the appanage of the nations which, alien to the pleasure of lingering at the table, are ignorant of the poetry of dessert and the melancholies of digestion.

Never satisfied with lying still, our species has unthinkingly moved from one calamity to the next—the automatism of collapse, the disease of disaster.

I am most at peace when I contemplate the supreme disorder of things, when I lie on my couch for hours because no reason to rise is worthy of my respect. I may pass the time with a book or a film, but I understand these pursuits are only diversions, little tasks to fill up the otherwise vacuous hours. Suffocated by the senseless, we must be content merely to breathe. This alone must be enough.

Stasis

There is no moving forward, only standing still. When we catch a wild goose, it's not the goose we catch. There is no progress, only a semblance of such.

Dreams beget illusions that are difficult to destroy. Humanity prefers the comfort of a lie to the coldness of a dark truth. But there is beauty in the void, to be sure.

Steeped in illusion, it is rather easy to wake up in the morning. Disabused of all pretense, the task becomes insufferable. And you grab hold of anything—anything at all—to give you a reason to do it all over again.

There is no laughter, only a transient rush of air. When you turn to greet your brother, his smile is not meant for you. There is no happiness, only a ray of light in the void.

Walks

There are a few things in life I genuinely enjoy. Here are some of them:

1. Interesting discussions with close friends.

2. Reading my favorite authors in silence and semidarkness.

3. A glass of dry white wine and a Red House Painters album playing on vinyl.

4. Empty, snow-covered highways under a pink winter sky.

5. Late-night walks.

I really enjoy walks late at night, when everyone is sleeping. In these moments I am able to pretend that the world has decided to boycott action. No one will rise in the morning to perpetuate the vicious cycle of labor and consumption.

The best time might be in the fall. I like the smell of decaying leaves weaving its way through the crisp air. Sometimes I walk by myself; other times I walk with a friend. If I am alone, I might think about the latest book I am reading, or an album I've had on repeat. When I am with a friend, we might discuss films we enjoy or restaurants we should try. When I am walking, I can clear my head and focus on things that really matter.

My walks usually last 45 minutes or so, and during this time I feel invincible. For a few fleeting minutes of my life, anything is possible. With my legs in constant motion, I picture myself seamlessly beginning my next task after the walk is over. When I was writing my thesis and felt fatigued from generating words, I would head outside for a walk. This energized me and restored my fantasy of limitless potential, which would carry me through the evening.

We can sometimes improve our walks with a shot of espresso or maybe even a cigar. The taste of the coffee or the smell of the cigar smoke provides a tangible sense that pins down the moment. And depending on the choice of food, beverage, or inhalant, each walk takes on its own character.

Emil Cioran used to take walks through the Luxembourg Gardens. When I visited Paris, I made sure to do this. I also recreated a walk through certain streets he would pass through late at night. As I walked, I wondered what he had thought about when he was in motion. Did he think much about writing during his walks, or did he even think at all?

When people pass away, it becomes painfully clear that their thoughts and unpublished words die with them. I felt this feeling yesterday when I found out Howard Zinn had passed away. I felt the same way when I visited Emil Cioran's grave. If I am wrong about the future, maybe I will have the opportunity to ask Cioran what he thought about in the Luxembourg Gardens, or if he even thought at all. I would like to do that someday.

Idiocracy and Nuance

Why do we feel the need to dissect every action, every word? Why must we find the motivation behind everything? Why can't we leave things alone? When someone happens to wear a particular shirt that differs from his normal attire, why must we ask why he chose to wear it?

On some level, we're all surgeons well-versed in the art of dissection. We use our scalpels to peel back the layers and probe the minutiae of everyday existence. We parse gestures and phrases. We search for answers. "Seek and you might find," we should have been told. No matter. We seek regardless, and if we find no answers, we contrive our own.

Gossip is the symptom of this sickness—the overwhelming need to speculate, the overarching thirst for confirmation. One day I will parade through the streets with a broom in my right hand. Or maybe I will wear yellow on a Monday. I'm curious to hear the motivation behind a broomstick or the meaning of a random hue.

Moreover, why the need for nuance that drives our words to obscurity? Why can't we just say things? Tonight is the president's State of the Union speech. The television pundits can't wait to devour his words and salivate over every vowel. They will read between the lines, praise his careful choice of words, commend his calculated pragmatism, as they might call it.

In spite of our likely downward spiral into a world only slightly removed from that of Mike Judge's Idiocracy, there is a small tinge of hope in this decline: a retarded species has no need for nuance. It acts on a more basic level, eschewing equivocation for a more direct form of communication. Behold the words of Mr. Dwayne Elizondo Mountain Dew Herbert Camacho, the president of Mike Judge's world, as he gives his own state of the union speech:

Shut up. Shit. I know shit's bad right now...with all that starvin' bullshit. And the dust storms. And we runnin' out of french fries and burrito coverings. But I got a solution.

[Machine-gun rounds]

That's what I thought! Now I understand everyone's shit's emotional right now, but listen up. I got a three-point plan to fix everything. Number one: we got this guy, Not Sure. Number two: he's got a higher IQ than any man alive! And number three: he's gonna fix everything. I give you my word as president. He'll fix the problems with all the dead crops. He's gonna make 'em grow again. And that ain't all.

[Singing] I give you my word. He's gonna fix the dust storms too. I give you my word. He's gonna fix the "ecomony." And he's so smart he's gonna do it all in one week...

When President Camacho speaks, you know exactly what he means.

In a Slate.com article from today entitled "Speech Therapy," Christopher Beam writes the following:

"Communications failure" is the phrase being used by the White House and assorted commentators to explain the collapse of health care reform and other parts of President Obama's agenda. According to this reasoning, Obama hasn't pursued the wrong goals. He has simply failed to articulate them. And tonight's State of the Union could somehow change that.

President Obama is quoted in the article concerning his failure to articulate: "What I haven't always been successful at doing is breaking through the noise and speaking directly to the American people in a way that during the campaign you could do."

Mr. Obama is definitely on to something there. Maybe he should take a cue from President Camacho.

Suffocation of the Species

I look forward to the day when we will have exhausted every possibility in the realm of ideas. Having no impetus for action—that animal instinct engendered by anxiety and the need for movement—we will simply cease to stir. No longer sustained by any pretense of the possible, we will discard our faith in progress and turn to sloth instead.

Enlightened creatures of the ineffectual, we will then cast off our gods as inferior to our cause. After all, they are officious and petty gods who were incapable of rising above their need to create. They craved a certain perpetual motion of the species, and so contrived our existence to satisfy themselves.

In time we will develop an asceticism of ambiguity to protest the cosmic misdeed of our creators. Our new religion, relying at first on the collective cry of "no," will climax in a doubt that paralyzes us. Wallowing in a semblance of potentiality in which everything is possible and yet nothing really is, we will finally grasp the beauty of atrophy and the sublimity of sleep.

It is quite astonishing, really, when one looks around at those who will do anything—anything at all—to stave off ennui. But in running away from one monster, we run instead toward another—one even more efficient in extinguishing us. The symptoms of our disease—war, poverty, discrimination in every form—are nothing more than the ill effects of motion, a gift from our benefactors, those divine engineers of a flawed species.

We cling to our hopes and choose to effect them with movement. But instead of our constant fits—those affronting and inefficient uses of the calorie—what if we chose to do nothing? As a species, could we handle the outcome? No thirst for power. No need to deliberate or even speak. No search for meaning in Walmart.

And in our state of collective inertia, the act of procreation would cease. What would be the point of propagating an inanimate species? In the supreme reversal of roles, only the stillborn would matter.

Deriving meaning from movement, human beings would lose their footing in a world devoid of instances. Overcome by the mere need to breathe, the race might even manage to suffocate itself at the endpoint of its fatigue. The gods would look down on their handiwork, those wretched beings convulsing for lack of air, for lack of anything.

It would be a suicide for the ages, the culmination of a protest beginning in despair and ending in silence. How fortunate we would be to experience the end of history through the act of asphyxiation—suffocation of the species—the only event in which we would be lucky enough to annihilate ourselves in torpor.

Questioning the Corpse

I have always enjoyed taking strolls through graveyards, even in elementary school. Maybe it's easier to derive pleasure from graveyards when few people you know are buried in them.

Most graveyards I've seen are beautiful places. This is probably for the benefit of the living since the dead no longer appear to have the ability to appreciate them. I've always been curious about the ways in which people choose where they want to be buried. They always seem to plan for death from the perspective of the living, which makes sense; it's difficult to plan from the opposite perspective since so few of us have experienced it. "I want to be buried in the corner of that field under the oak tree. That will shield me from the Sun and keep me cool." What if dead bodies don't like to be cool? What if there is something about this state that makes them crave warmth? If so, most of us will be very disappointed once we get there.

The idea of burying dead people seems so odd when we take time to think about it. Centuries ago, the running tally of dead people was much lower, and we didn't think much about where to put them all. Human beings operate on a very limited time horizon; they don't think about these things until they become a problem. And so they put decomposing corpses in boxes and place them in the ground to stay there—potentially forever, depending on your religious beliefs.

What if human beings happen to be correct in their belief that the species will perpetuate itself forever? Where will we put all of the fresh corpses? Perhaps by then, we will have conquered Mars, and the private sector will pounce on the chance to ship them there. I imagine this will unfairly burden the lower classes, who will be unable to afford the transportation costs. Then we will debate the idea that all human beings were born with the right to be buried, which will clog up the courts for a few years. Over time, governments might decide to subsidize the shipment of corpses to faraway planets. The right will probably get upset about this, arguing that corpses of the lower class should be cremated instead. Radicals and other misfits might argue that everybody should be cremated.

In the future, will we continue to bury ourselves and construct more beautiful graveyards? Will we have to drive everywhere (assuming we are still burdened by the automobile) surrounded by cemeteries? I fear their ubiquity might detract from their beauty, and so I would probably take the stance in favor of cremation, making me a radical.

What if we do not gain access to Mars and are forced to dig up old corpses to replace them with fresh ones? Imagine the complications. How will we choose which corpses to dig up? Will it be based simply on duration of expiration, or will we value people based on their profession or social status, as we do now? And furthermore, will we all be guaranteed a limited duration of time in the ground? Perhaps we will place atomic clocks on gravestones to ensure everyone's right to a proper burial, as outlined in our amended Constitution.

I love walking through graveyards because corpses don't care much for conversation. They don't worry about the weather or ask me if they look fat in their burial attire, which they do not. But when I contemplate a future devoid of space to store them, their lack of words suddenly becomes a problem. They are, after all, the ones best suited to answer these questions.

Stagnation of the Species

I am filled with ambivalence and uncertainty about virtually everything. Observe the way I use the word "virtually" in the previous sentence. Uncomfortable and unable to commit to a statement of absolute certainty, I always give myself room to maneuver; I always leave myself an out. I think of how I answer even simple questions. For example, sometimes people ask me what I will be doing after work or on the weekend. "I'll probably relax. Maybe watch a movie." This is how I often respond. I rarely complete such sentences without using words like "probably" or "maybe" or "rarely." I want to complete my sentences without using these words, but I cannot. Usually.

I am assaulted daily by a blizzard of news stories that never stop. Thirsting for knowledge to pin down the world, I do my best to discriminate and digest the important details. But what are the important details? The more I read, the more unsure I am of the answer. I watch other people hunker down and take sides. "The health care bill is a necessary evil. Pass it," one might say. "The health care bill is nothing but a handout to the insurance industry. Don't pass it," another might shout. Both arguments seem valid. Which side do I choose? All too often I feel that my opinion is born out of capriciousness and incomplete information.

I wonder how often people continue to advance a particular argument because they had happened to publicly announce it the previous week. In their struggle for consistency in spite of honesty, they make the same argument this week. Afraid to choose an opposing side in the face of contrary evidence, they merely parrot the points made by their comrades. How often does this happen?

And to complicate matters, we are molested by a media that prides itself on prodding consumers to make irrational decisions. If it's difficult to make a decision with unadulterated information, how can we possibly do so with lies prancing among half-truths?

Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up and take a different tack in my quest for answers. Then again, maybe I won't. Maybe I'll grow tired of the act of analysis and elevate ignorance to the status of a religion. Then again, maybe I'll continue down the same path and ignore my personal heresies. Maybe next week I'll denounce my complicity in this game of musical chairs disguised as progress. Then again, maybe I'll watch a movie instead, or merely speculate on the stagnation of the species. In this way, I won't completely shed my culpability in perpetuating our false hopes and eternal illusions, but I will be able to elaborate on my guilt in theory. At the very least, this should allow me to sleep well at night.

Perhaps we would be better off as vegetables—a piece of broccoli, or perhaps lettuce—uncorrupted by the mere temptation to discern. Forced into an existence anterior to ambulation, the mere idea of action becomes derogatory. And in a world devoid of action, there are no events to ponder and no sides to take. In the disdain we show for the supposed insignificance of the plant kingdom, we subtly point the finger back at ourselves. Inflicted with the tendency to elevate the illusion of progress above all else, we choose to run in place rather than refrain from running at all. On this matter, at least, I know which side I choose.

Healthy Eating

I was told by a server at the hospital cafeteria today that I "eat healthy," and there was not a hint of irony in her voice. I was nonplussed and finally settled on a thank-you even though I was certain she was mistaken. When people tell you something you are supposed to interpret as a compliment, the painless response is to thank them and avoid a polite rebuttal. And besides, I now know that at least one person in the world thinks my diet is exemplary. Now I can marshal evidence against those who think otherwise.

To support her assertion, she stated that I thought hard about what I want to eat and took time to make a decision. What she forgot to mention is that this decision is often between a hamburger or slice of pizza. Perhaps I conceal such choices by throwing in a side of carrots or broccoli.

After my exchange with the cafeteria lady, I began to brainstorm the numerous conclusions I could make about her compliment. Here are the most probable:

1. Ms. X has paid no attention whatsoever to what I've been ordering the past few days.

2. One of us is grossly mistaken about the definition of "healthy."

3. In an act of culinary sabotage, the FDA has completely inverted the food pyramid, rendering my eating habits healthy.

I would like to believe #3 simply because it's so scandalous, but in all likelihood, #1 is more rooted in reality.

What Is This Thing Called Palin?

I remember the first time I saw Sarah Palin's glowing face. I opened my homepage to Slate.com one morning, and there she was with that vacuous stare. It was the day McCain and company announced she would be the Republican vice-presidential nominee. Thank you, John McCain, for that. Thank you for leaving the American public in the wake of your bountiful cynicism. Long after you have departed for the next world or whatever you actually believe in, she will still be around to assault us with her neverending string of gerunds and unwelcomed winks. Even at that first moment, I was overcome with feelings of horror and foreboding, and nothing has changed.

The most incredible aspect of the Sarah Palin parade float is what has been painfully obvious since the beginning to anyone with a tinge of honesty and intelligence: her lack of knowledge and inability to speak coherently. This was apparent from her first national television interview. When she first opened her mouth, I couldn't help but picture a high schooler who had crammed the night before for a poster presentation. Clearly, somebody had filled her head with talking points to regurgitate on cue. But this tactic was an immense failure, something that people like Bill Kristol either choose to ignore or genuinely disbelieve. Both possibilities are equally shocking.

Palin is not a woman of substance. And because she cannot tell us what exactly she is for, she must define herself by what she is against, even if these things don't exist. I doubt this is a viable long-term strategy. I watched her Fox News debut on Bill O'Reilly the other night, and she followed her usual narrative: we must fight against the liberal media; the American people have had enough of these big-government policies; the simple solution that will solve all our problems is common-sense conservatism. I've always despised the phrase "common sense," and for good reason: it's usually the dim ones who declare their belief in it.

It must be comforting to believe we live in a world without shades of gray, however untruthful this worldview might be. Facts don't matter much to politicians on the left or the right or any other direction, so long as they appear to believe the lies they throw at us. But even if these lies make us feel good, it doesn't make them true.

When I go back and watch Palin discuss foreign policy with Charles Gibson, I cringe slightly and wonder if the film Idiocracy is even more prescient that I had thought. Palin is a symbol of a greater problem: our inability to think clearly and seriously about things that really matter. When I listen to Palin spew a garden variety of consonants and vowels, I tend to think it's a symptom of her inability to think coherently. I doubt there is much structure to her arguments, and so there is not much structure to her words. If she understood and knew more about the issues she talked about, her sentences wouldn't betray a self-satisfied and bottomless ignorance.

Anecdotally, and in no way scientifically, it often seems that those who trumpet the magnificence and righteousness of our species are the very ones who spoil this vision. The brilliant ones who have made our world a little more interesting are the ones who are comfortable with doubt. They are also willing to question the role of our species in the universe. This is how progress happens.

Most people encounter problems and then provide answers. Maybe they are good answers; maybe they are not. We can debate this. Palin, on the other hand, encounters answers and then provides problems. But by courting the same media she rails against and molesting us with her own brand of ignorance, she has given us a problem for which there is no simple answer, and for this we must all suffer. Thank you, John McCain, for that.