Introducing a New Series: Philosophy Diaries

Hello dear readers!

I haven't directly spoken to you since my very first introductory post, and I feel as though I should do it more often. Although there aren't many of you, I'd like to thank you for reading my articles, it means a lot to me; I don't care about numbers, so long as there is one person who enjoys reading my blog, I will be delighted and honored.

I'm writing to announce a brand new series; "Philosophy Diaries" will cover the main ideologies of philosophy and some of their core themes, the digressions will spring from any outer source which sparks curiosity and raises philosophical inquiries: literary writings, primary and secondary philosophical texts, and even some of my own reflections. The first volume will be dedicated to 'the absurd', a concept which I already explored briefly in the article about Kafka; the essay will decipher the connection between Dante, Nietzsche and Sartre, introducing nihilism and existentialism. I can't wait for you to read it!

I'll see you very soon, stay tuned :)

Love, 

Vittoria

Thoughts on Kafka's short story 'The Judgment': pacing, narration, and magical realism

Franz Kafka's The Judgment: A Perpetual Quest for Answers; or a Contemplation of Absurdity

Imaginary Scenario

"The flicker of the candle's flame illuminated the bare table slightly, creating a play of shadows on the walls confining the kitchen; the door to the yard showed a dark-tinted light from outside, so bleak it made me forget whether I should dine or have breakfast. The rain battered on the glass-door displaying the immitigable storm and the bright black, drenched soil; cold drops splattered on the door so harshly that, had the rain been blood-colored, a crimson mess would be staining the surfaces for evermore, leaving me testimony of a dire tragedy. A thunder echoed in the sky, an aggressive flash of white appeared and faded rapidly, I witnessed all this from the chair I sat in; the rain soaked the thousand and one thoughts that heavily burdened my mind, but each came from one: I had to free myself from the wicked heirloom."

On 'The Name of the Rose' by Umberto Eco

'The Name of the Rose': A synthesis of Aristotelic influence on the Medieval Catholic Church

Umberto Eco’s Il Nome della Rosa is considered to be one of the most illustrious pieces of contemporary Italian literature, and although it is commonly mistaken as a simple crime thriller set in the 12th century, the narration conceals a much deeper meaning than that captured in the façade of the story. In fact, the work presents a profound history that unravels a variety of paradoxes and controversial themes; it is a novel that encaptures mystery, ambiguity and fascination, combined with philosophical doubt and mysticism.

In 1327, tension arose within the Catholic Church due to the conflict between the new monastic orders regarding the reform of the doctrine. During that time period, Adso of Melk, a young novice and his preceptor William of Baskerville (an English Franciscan friar) are encharged by the Abbot of a Benedictine abbey in northern Italy with the arduous work of resolving the enigma of the unexplained assassination of one of the monks, Adelmo of Otranto. Within the span of the seven days in which the two stay in the abbey, the unfathomable happens: from peccaminous encounters and heretic discourse, to bloody murder and prohibited paths, William and Adso find themselves stuck in an endless labyrinth (quite literally). The narration, full of twists and turns, ends in tragedy, depriving the reader of a satisfying closure, but leaving them with a scarring doubt that will torment them for the rest of their life.

The author concludes the work by quoting the ancient book ‘De Contemptu Mundi’ written by Pope Innocent III, revealing the hidden message of the story and finally clarifying its title:

Est ubi gloria nunc Babylonia? Nunc ubi dirus / Nabucodonosor, et Darii vigor, illeque Cyrus / Qualiter orbita viribus incita praete-rierunt, / Fama relinquitur, illaque figitur, hi putruerunt.

By quoting these verses, which question the disappearance of the great Babylonia, Eco clearly explains the real meaning of his novel, introducing the theme of caducity and ephemerality of being. In the end, all things come to a conclusion, and the only things that will survive are our nude, empty names - as the famous latin phrase ‘Stat rosa pristina nomine, nomina nuda tenemus’ implies.

I conclude by recommending the reading of this novel to whoever is passionate about Aristotle, Medieval Christian symbolism, mysticism and esoterism, but most importantly, I recommend this novel to whoever is searching for the experience of an existential crisis and is constantly craving an intellectual challenge.

Fragments of a Dream (Prose Poetry)

20/11/24 (8:52 PM) 

I dreamed of her once again; once again she was able to penetrate my dreams and lure me in with her bewitching eyes. In my foggy memory of such vision, I recall little of our impactful interaction in the realm of the mind, the only fragments of my remembrance resemble her gaze sparkling with light and her body radiating an angelic aura. Although I don't consider these flashes secondary, the one thing I remember best is the sensation of tranquility as I sunk into her arms. She embraced me delicately, as I instinctively leaned into her chest and flung myself at her as one would at their pillow. There was no noise, no outer distraction, no greater event apart from our embrace. The world had stopped holding its breath and had emitted a deep sigh of rest. Silence. The sole physical sensation proving I wasn't ascending into the unknown was my heartbeat, and the feel of hers, melting as music in my ears. Warmth and familiarity, inner peace and protection spread in my core. I felt guarded in my soul, surrounded by an eternal state of stillness.

On Writing with the Purpose of Sharing

The aspect of writing for a public with which I struggle the most, is the ability to “erase” the interlink between myself and my fruition, let it mold to others, according to their point of view, experience, and emotion, let others shape my words to their liking, in order for them to personally install a connection to the text, for it to become relatable.

Inexplicably, I find it really hard to disconnect from my creations, because, in a sense (in every sense possible), they have a little bit of me (the whole of me) in them. It would mean to alienate and abandon a part of myself which has been bound to me ever since it was born, leave to the judgement of others my fragile words, that are now no longer mine, but are possession of whoever reads them and connects with them. I find it difficult and nearly impossible, to share a text charged with personal sensations, and let others see through it, see through me. I myself am perhaps too afraid of seeing through me. This timidness, this extreme fear of feeling exposed, leads me to think that maybe, there are pieces of myself I should not share, because they might change the view others have of me, however, this is why I constantly push myself to do it. I force myself out my warm tavern of self-reassurance and acceptance, I let myself get hit by the outside cold.

From my Diary (Captured, a vision slipping away)

08/9/2024 (18:07)

- Writing this down quickly to not let it slip out my mind, the only object left for me to write with is a pencil, sorry.

Blue Moon - Paul Evans

In the strangest but truest way every version of myself exists inside my being and shapes it every day to be as it is. Every old version of me is stacked upon the latest, previous one as a brick of stone held in place by a batter of water, sand, and cement. I wake up and I'm new, reborn, and occasionally repulsed or resentful of the person I was before (yesterday).