I'm pretty sure I meant to commemorate the one year anniversary of this blog, and say something about the fact that while I swore to everyone (mostly Rita) that I would never, ever, ever, EVER be a blogger, I can conclude now that it really isn't so bad, actually. I think I planned to disavow some of my stupider posts and chuckle fondly at the clever ones, but since I should have done all this about a month ago, the idea seems a bit stale now. It was also kind of a bad idea to begin with.
So, anyway, let's focus on an anniversary I haven't missed: the one year anniversary of the beginning of my American History Self-Improvement Project. Like my blogging, I haven't been as consistent or intelligent about this as I wanted to be, but it's turned out OK in the end. In fact, I think I've learned more about pre-twentieth century American history in the past year than I have in all my previous years of schooling combined. As Will Hunting said to that asshold at Harvard, "you dropped a 150 grand on a fuckin' education you could have gotten for a dollar fifty in late charges at the public library." My experience this year suggests that he was kind of right; I love the Brooklyn Public Library, and I have spent only 50 cents on late charges.
Am I ready to write my dissertation on Lincoln, or the Federalist Papers, or the founding of New Amsterdam? Not exactly. But do I now know the etymology of the word cookie and can I tell you whether Obama was the first President from Illinois since Lincoln? Yes, indeed I can: cookie comes from the dutch word koekje, meaning cake, and Grant, who lived for a while in Galena, was kind of from Illinois. (So was Reagan, but I don't think he counts.) Totally useless information? Yes. But not everything I've absorbed is quite as useless.
At the moment, I'm reading The Metaphysical Club by Louis Menand. It's really excellent, so much so that I'm actually thinking about reading William James. Also, it turns out that Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. and William James "had a date to get together every Saturday evening at 8:30 to discuss philosophy." This was in 1866; James was 24, and Holmes was 25. It's really good to know that I am not quite the biggest dork ever.
3 comments:
I read that book once too, I think after high school or maybe first year of college, when I was blissfully ignorant of Louis Menand's cultural status, and also pretty much everything about late 19th century Boston society and the entire context of the book. I remember being especially confused by the philosophy/character/existence of James Peirce, and why his name was spelled backwards. In conclusion, definitely a book I should've left for later.
Charles Peirce, actually, and yes, he is strange. And Peirce is pronounced purse so why isn't it spelled that way? Annoying.
Good book, though. You should try it again.
Um, yes. Charles. Good call.
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