My Path to Tolstoy

My path to Tolstoy began about thirty years ago, in the Spring of 1982. I was preparing to graduate from the University of Pittsburgh with a double-major in Philosophy and Classical Languages. I had chosen that major because, as a junior in high school, I had stumbled upon a copy of Robert Bretall's Kierkegaard Anthology, picked it up out of curiosity and, to my own surprise, found that I could not put it down. The Danish thinker's erudition, irony, wit and, above all, passion for ideas, spoke to me like nothing (outside of the Bible) had ever spoken to me before. Out of his deep love for Christ, S.K. had become a religious critic, and in his writings I heard my call. But in order to follow in his foot-steps, I knew that I had much to read, much to learn, and (as it turned out) much to suffer. I thought that the study of philosophy and the "foundational texts" of the "Western tradition" would be a good place to start my training in religious criticism, and that is how I began.

Classicists, I discovered, were, with a few exceptions (like Norman O. Brown), antiquarians. Academic philosophy, on the other hand, had re-invented itself in the 20th century (in the U.S. and Great Britain) as the hand-maid of the physical sciences. I learned a great deal from my professors in both disciplines but concluded that a professional career in either one would not help me to pursue my calling. My father pressed me to consider a career in the law, but that did not appeal to me, either. I felt I had no place in this world; nevertheless, I was determined to make one. Kierkegaard had managed to do it; somehow, I would too.

As the date of my graduation drew near, I was summoned for something like an exit interview with an academic adviser from the philosophy department. My recollection is that the person who was assigned to meet with me was not a tenured member of the faculty but, rather, a visiting professor--an individual with whom I had not taken a single course. I believe his name was van Aken, but I cannot be certain of that.

In any event, when I entered his office he was looking through my academic file. After greeting me, the first words out of his mouth were, "So, where have you applied to graduate school--or, should I say, where have you been accepted?"

"I haven't applied to graduate school," I said.

He looked at me as though stunned or confused. Gesturing towards my file he continued: "Philosophy, Classics, you've been elected to Phi Beta Kappa, I see ... Why haven't you applied to grad school?"

I explained the history of how I had come to study philosophy, and that I saw no future in the discipline for someone like myself.

"But there's Continental philosophy," he countered, showing some irritation. "Duquesne has an excellent program and it's just down the street."

"I don't want to do Continental philosophy," I said. "What they call 'philosophy' looks to me like bad psychology."

This characterization seemed to amuse him. "I see," he nodded. We sat in silence for a few moments and then he asked, "So what do you plan to do with yourself?"

"I don't know, really. All I know is that I'm going to have to find a job."

"Doing what?" he asked.

"I don't know, but I'll figure something out."

We sat in silence for a few more moments and then he said, "Well, best of luck to you."

I thanked him and rose to go to the door. As I pulled it open I heard him say something, but I wasn't sure what it was.

"I beg your pardon?" I asked.

He repeated what he had said before: "Read Wittgenstein."

"Right. Thanks," I said, and went out.

I never saw the man again and I don't know whatever became of him. But I took his advice. I went straightaway to the campus bookstore and ordered a copy of Wittgenstein's Tractatus. When it arrived, I began to read it; slowly, line by line. Much of it was very difficult to understand, but there was something about it that intrigued me. Wittgenstein seemed to think that the world we inhabit makes sense--or, rather, that we can make sense of the world because there is an underlying logical structure or order to it that corresponds to our language. Or so the book begins. But as it proceeds, the author's confidence in the underlying logos and linguistic correspondence appears to grow thin. One has the sense that he is putting on a brave face--like whistling a merry tune as he strolls through a graveyard--but he doubts his own assertions.

Towards the end of the book, one wonders if Wittgenstein is losing his composure; he loudly proclaims the supremacy of the natural sciences, but is he convinced? He counsels his reader to silence, but why? Are his doubts overwhelming? That, at any rate, is how I understood the Tractatus and, understanding it thus, cherished it as an honest book. I often read it alongside the poetry of Wallace Stevens--a contemporary of Wittgenstein's and another modern committed to whistling his "blessed rage for order" as he made his way through the world--a "metaphysician in the dark."

By my mid-20's, I was reading everything I could get my hands on by and about Wittgenstein and his philosophy. I developed a reading program for myself in which I tried to read not only everything that Wittgenstein had written but also everything that he himself had read.

And, in this roundabout way, I was gradually led, by my late-20's, to reading Tolstoy.