Introduction

Whenever I begin to write, I have to ask my own unvoiced question: why are you doing this? The world is, after all, already full of words - so many words! If anything, it would, perhaps, be better if more people refrained from expressing themselves. Perhaps there is not enough silence and unmarked paper. This isn't just because so much of what is written and said is stupid, or redundant, or pointless, but because whenever we are speaking or writing we are not listening or reading - and the world would benefit from more of each - and also because it takes a certain amount of self-importance to impose one's thoughts, feelings, and opinions upon one's audience - whether actual or only potential. What the world could certainly use is a lot more humility. It's not a respected virtue in our Western world of self-advocacy, competition, and self-love, but I think that the reorientation of perspective that humility necessarily brings - a reorientation to restraint, to self-doubt, to a certain kind of perspectivism - would promote a more humane society. All that said, I am writing - about the questionableness of writing, no less! But this is partly because I hope that what I write will be worthy of existence, and partly also because the preceding thoughts reveal something about my character: that is, a humbleness that vies for supremacy with a self-questioning but nonetheless haughty elitism, a tendency toward self-contradiction and paradox, and, of course, an inclination to digress.

The predecessors to this blog have existed both on paper and in this strange world of electrical signals. With each of them, my initial enthusiasm has degenerated as a re-assessment of the compiled writing has revealed a paucity of worthwhile thoughts and words. Nonetheless, the enthusiasm returns periodically, and I embark upon yet another of these adventures, always slightly wiser and therefore hopefully more interesting than I was at the time of the previous attempt.

All that said, I have still not satisfied myself as to the existence of this journal of sorts on the Internet. Why not write all this down in a notebook? The trouble is that clandestine writing is always permeated by the gloom of isolation. Faced with a paper journal I find myself enclosed in a dark room, which resounds with the multiplicity of my own voices. Why I find that disturbing, and why other people don't seem to, is a topic for future investigation. For now, I will only say that the possibility of sharing my private thoughts with other people is always appealing, but I want those people to be volunteers. Rather than imposing my words upon friends, I would prefer that unknown readers came of their own accord. But maybe that's rationalization. It's possible that I, as well as many writers of blogs, simply enjoy the opportunity to perform before an audience. In either case, with this post I put myself on stage.