No conception of the world can be created without something contradicting; the sum total of predicates can contain anything which can thereby be the cause of its destruction.
Humans and the synthesis of the spirit is the most striking exemplification of this conceptualisation. One can only have ears for knowledge of what experience has given him access to and is predisposed towards.
Can we then also further push this idea to its breaking point by considering the reality which we are collectively bringing forth through a form of inter-subjectivity, which is a form of reconciliation, a comfortable fiction?
Call it a celebration of the "difference-in-itself" if May will. It is wishful thinking to believe that thesis and anti-thesis always triangulate into a coherent synthesis. We try our best to explain this incongruity – philosophers and scientists build systems, believers build churches, temples and monasteries, and poets build sonnets and rhyme and build mobile armies of metaphors. Philosophers and scientists get gifted with discernment, believers are gifted with faith, and poets get gifted with sensuality and romantic ideals. All trying to point towards but never quite capturing truth.
Truth refuses this reification, conceptualisation and categorisation. It refuses to be rigid and calcified. It is this indeterminate quality of truth, the evasive and allusive nature of truth, that makes it all the more appealing. And in higher and higher heights of the truth, the thing and its opposite are not contradictory. The law of excluded middle does not apply to the highest level of truth. (Sorry, Aristotle)
To be evangelical here, I believe our nomadic Prophet Jesus Christ is the perfect and living embodiment of this contradiction. The one scandal that refuses comprehension, and thereby speaks in parable.This representation of the Infinite Spirit in relation to the Finite Lived Body.
The more original a person is, the more anxious they become. Anxiety here, in essence, is not a sign of imperfection but rather dizziness in the face of infinite possibilities.
And in this height of great dizziness, I see my precursors staring at me, all 6 of them: Heraclitus, Pascal, Spinoza, Goethe, Kierkegaard and Nietzsche staring at me. I stare back at them.
Have I disappointed them? I hope I did.
We philosophers. We incomprehensible ones.