This isn’t so much a well, drawn-out thought piece, as it is a reflection on the kind of writing that I do. For starters, I don’t consider myself an analytical philosopher. Sure, my past couple of editorials have focused on that modern style of breaking down logical arguments in the works of Descartes, Peano, or Mill, who were figures of the analytical style. But the lessons they teach are boring to me, frankly because they just don’t feel alive, unless I give them context.
I suppose I would talk a little more about continental philosophy in the future, and give my thoughts on the works of Hegel, Marx, or any and all of the Existentialists. I’ve been told countless times that my life is more like Sartre’s right now, and Lugones is my go-to philosopher/literary critic for a lot of my own worldview at the moment. But there’s always been something that bugged me about this strange differentiation between what is philosophy and what is philosophy proper: why is it that we don’t talk to each other?