Philosophical Melancholy and the Title of this Blog

People ask me, what's up with the title of this blog? It's a good question. I used to have a sidebar link to a post explaining the title, but then I changed the subtitle, and didn't like the layout look, and I lacked the mental energy to do something else. 


The title of this blog comes from a little known and under-appreciated novel co-authored by Don DeLillo called Amazons: An Intimate Memoir by the First Woman to Play in the National Hockey League. DeLillo is the author of a bunch of "serious" novels like White Noise, Mao II, and Underworld. My favorite of those is White Noise, because it is both funny and apocalyptic, because it centers on a professor pioneering the field of "Hitler Studies," and because the plot concerns pharmaceutical treatments for the fear of death.

Amazons is not a "serious" novel in that sense people mean when they deal in culture hierarchies. It is told from the point of view of a fictional narrator Cleo Birdwell and the subtitle really says it all: it is an "intimate memoir" of "the first woman" in "the NHL"-- Cleo has lots of sex with lots of different guys, because she wants to, and because she enjoys it, and she spends a lot of time deflecting the ridiculousness that often arises when a woman does a thing.

Amazons was written in the 80s and maybe it would be cancellable now. There is some racial stereotyping when a bunch of wealthy Saudi businessmen buy up her team, and Cleo is not above the occasional lie or other bad behavior in doing what she wants to do.

However, there are many reasons I love Amazons and one of them is this: how often does a novel depict a woman doing what she wants to do, and having a great time, and not getting in trouble for it? Like, never?  

At one point in the novel, Cleo's boyfriend Shaver gets ill and his treatment is to be placed in a "Kramer cube" -- a new innovative treatment that involves 24-hour sleeping, coma-like but at home, in a clear glass box, for a few months. This is convenient for Cleo, who dresses Shaver in some cute pyjamas then gets to run around playing hockey and having adventures while still feeling there is someone there for her at home.

At one point a magazine does a feature on Cleo and a nosy reporter comes to do a photo-shoot-and-interview. The reporter is, of course, excited by the whole Kramer-Cube-With-Shaver-In-It, especially because of the cute pyjamas. In the way of lifestyle magazine reporters, she wants details. "What's next for you two?" she asks. And Cleo says, "I don't know. I haven't thought beyond the Kramer. The Kramer is now."

I often say that studying philosophy can be bad for my mental well-being. One reason is that it gets me in the habit of asking questions about everything, especially "why" or "what next" questions. Once I'm in that habit, I apply it to everything. That is bad, because for a lot of things in life, you just have to do the thing, and feel the feelings, and find a way to get into it. Too much analyzing always leads me to a rational dead end and then to the emotional dead ends that come along for the ride. It's a special melancholy induced by doing philosophy.

Hume knew all about philosophical melancholy and described it perfectly in 1748: "Where am I, or what? From what causes do I derive my existence, and to what condition shall I return? ... I am confounded with all these questions, and begin to fancy myself in the most deplorable condition imaginable, environed with the deepest darkness, and utterly deprived of the use of every member and faculty. Most fortunately it happens, that since Reason is incapable of dispelling these clouds, Nature herself suffices to that purpose, and cures me of this philosophical melancholy and delirium, either by relaxing this bent of mind, or by some avocation, and lively impression of my senses, which obliterate all these chimeras. I dine, I play a game of backgammon, I converse, and am merry with my friends. And when, after three or four hours' amusement, I would return to these speculations, they appear so cold, and strained, and ridiculous, that I cannot find in my heart to enter into them any farther."

That is to say: thinking is depressing, and you can't get out of it by thinking. I love Hume's description of the antidote for philosophical melancholy: "I dine, I play a game of backgammon, I converse, and am merry with my friends." For me, one difficulty of philosophical melancholy is that when you're in it, you may not feel like doing any of those things. But you have to do them anyway. Then sometimes they make you feel better.

When Cleo says, "I haven't thought beyond the Kramer. The Kramer is now" -- for me that sums up the opposite of philosophical melancholy. Stop asking questions and analyzing everything. Just enjoy your cute Shaver in his cute pyjamas in his Kramer cube while you can.