I am stimulated by the thoughts that spin the worlds of others, and I benefit from tapping into some of that centrifugal force. A little cross-pollination works wonders. Reading is the best way to put me in touch with another person, as it helps me see the world from their point of view. I become them for a spell—it actually feels like I’m under a spell when I share their experiences. And, because I feel that the acquisition of experience is the reason for living, that can't be a bad thing.
Whether the author lives or is history is immaterial. If you enjoy a book and later discover that the person who wrote it has recently died, then doesn’t make a jot of difference to your enjoyment. I don’t need to relate to anyone in the actual flesh to appreciate what they say. In fact, reading their words is so much better than pow-wowing in real life—that's been my experience. And the corollary of that is that if you’d like to make friends with me, please don't knock on my door. But I wouldn’t ban you from sending me an essay.
Nevertheless, let the buyer—or borrower—of books beware. Don't dwell entirely within anyone's headroom, no matter how comfortable it feels when you first slip between the sheets. Don’t let yourself be completely swept away in the throes of a new love or affair lest you lose your sense of equilibrium and poise. If you are in the habit of reading books then, to act as a counterbalance, I’d strongly suggest that you write one too.
As I said at the outset, I shy away from—in fact I shun—any system of thinking that claims to be superior to the rest: Philosophy, Scientific Method, Religion and the like. Yes, I will use them, but not exclusively. I’d rather to go for the grok. An idea has got to sit right, feel right, and heft nicely in a way that I can accept totally. It’s like when you test an unknown plant to see if it is edible; you rub it on your skin or hold it in your mouth to see if it provokes an allergic reaction. If it doesn’t, then you proceed a little further.
The scientific way, they say, to verify or disprove a hypothesis is by carrying out replicable work. Instead, I choose to perform thought experiments. They are cheap, quick, and they work. What I’d like to do is to walk you through a few that I’ve conducted. We’ve already looked at three, from which I concluded:
1. I am immortal
2. I am very, very special . . . yet utterly limited
3. I am not confined to my body
Quite a heady philosophical brew for a boy not yet in his teens, wouldn’t you agree?
I’ll now dig out a few more, re-examine their results, and build from there. We’ll see what the consequences and corollaries are. Finally, I’ll describe what I deduce as their implications, and maybe close off with a question and answer session. How does that sound?
Though this seems like a logical and sensible plan, it’ll be messy. I can’t lead you along a well-thought out progression. Along my path there are no easy, clear-cut steps. There isn’t a wheelchair-accessible slope that leads you to a coherent and comprehensive (and comprehensible) overview. My history isn’t like that. It is still being written, in fact, as I write.
The order of these thought experiments will be roughly chronological, but they do not work seamlessly. I don’t have a firm, fixed destination, and I don’t have much of a game plan. I engage in this exercise for myself as much as for others, so I share your curiosity about what will develop. A machete? Yes, we might need one. Bring it along.
