Language limitations

Humans often struggle to communicate their aesthetic impressions of something they have read, seen, heard, or played. This difficulty is a manifestation of the limitations of language itself: as a system that reflects real-world events, language frequently lacks the means to express feelings, or even more elevated forms of contemplative experience that have no widely recognized name in any language.

Rebellion against language

This goes in line with Ludwig Wittgenstein’s ideas of language, which I mostly share. Nevertheless, where Wittgenstein stated that

whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent,

I find an opportunity to explore the world of ideals, with the hope that someday my words can reflect the contemplative word just from use, not from reference alone. This aspiration has its antecedents: I am sure you can recall a moment when something you read moved you to the point of tears. I have been working on this project from some time now, yet I think that the level of the goal we pursue through writing lies so far ahead that we may approach it indefinitely without reaching it in a lifetime. Those who come after us will be the ones to judge our sublimity. This the reason that makes me write, while practicing¹ the reach of my words.

Writing blooms from the soul

Nevertheless, please do not misunderstand me: writing does not present itself as an externally imposed obligation.² Instead, it presents itself as a natural expression of the soul, which I believe arises from our condition as contemplative beings. Fernando Pessoa describes this flourishing excellently in his poem “The Tobacco Shop”,³

The world is for those born to conquer it, Not for those who dream they can conquer it, even if they’re right. I’ve done more in dreams than Napoleon. I’ve held more humanities against my hypothetical breast than Christ. I’ve secretly invented philosophies such as Kant never wrote. But I am, and perhaps will always be, the man in the garret, Even though I don’t live in one.

where he reflects on how ideas emerge from people’s minds, roaming freely and departing after a time. Writing, then, is both the act and the result of attempting to capture the sublime through a physical net, with varying degrees of success, aiming not to be the man in the garret.

Me, as a reading being

Before writing, one must read. Moreover, just as family members and teachers influence one’s personality and style, one’s trajectory as a reader can, to a certain degree, explain the path one will follow as a writer. Thus, in the interest of transparency regarding my motives, I will briefly describe my reading history.

Starting as a science fiction reader

Just so you may know me better, my trajectory with books is broad. I began by reading science fiction, specially from Isaac Asimov. It was my uncle who first introduced me to reading, and at the time he himself was immersed in Asimov’s writing. Asimov was an astounding author, not only because of his skill as a storyteller, but also because he wrote across a wide range of subjects, far beyond fiction alone. As a result, I explored more of his work, including his books on the Greeks, the Egyptians, and real-world science. This, in turn, led me toward humanistic literature:poetry, philosophy, and related fields.

Asimov’s books do not merely present intriguing discoveries or technologies capable of radically transforming future societies; they also examine the philosophical and ethical implications of such advances. A clear example is the Foundation series, in which humanity develops a mathematical theory known as psychohistory. Its purpose is to predict historical events by analyzing the psychological behavior of entire populations, an idea that does not seem entirely implausible today, given ongoing advances in data analysis and large-scale computation.

There were other authors who captivated me as well, such as Philip K. Dick and Stanisław Lem, but I would prefer to discuss each of them after rereading their works, once I have more time. This exploration of the genre, extending beyond speculative science, ultimately led me toward an even wider range of topics, which I will address below.

From school’s philosophy and beyond

Science fiction presents hypothetical situations that challenge moral and value theory. There is no need to look far to see how the genre pushes the boundaries of ethics, as Isaac Asimov effectively demonstrated the difficulty of constructing a set of rules for robots that would prevent them from harming humans under all circumstances. Many of Asimov’s robot stories portray robots as sentient beings, susceptible to moral failure either because of human malice or as a result of their own actions as amoral agents,⁴ thereby forcing humanity to redefine the scope of robotic liberties and permissible actions in order to preserve itself.

These problems may appear to belong to a distant future, yet moral questions do not arise solely from the introduction of new technologies. They also emerge in the most ordinary situations, such as crossing the street or deciding how to speak to others. In my view, there are many moral dilemmas that require our full attention, as they concern how we behave toward and respond to other people; nevertheless, our own laziness often obstructs serious reflection. This is what makes those who have taught and written about these matters so valuable. As the saying goes:⁵

to read someone good is like reading oneself.

Good authors help us save time. Still, it remains each person’s responsibility to think their way rationally through moral dilemmas. One example of this kind of reflective writing is Albert Camus’s short book Reflections on the Guillotine — Albert Camus (PDF), which one may agree with or not, but which I am certain will set the mind in motion.

Prior to these dissertations, I read Sophie’s World by Jostein Gaarder, a book that has probably helped many readers gain an initial (and necessarily incomplete) overview of the history of philosophical thought. I even used it to prepare a presentation for my philosophy class. My professor, quite naturally, raised an eyebrow and explained that the book was not the best way to begin studying philosophy, nor was it suitable as a comprehensive reference for an academic assignment.

With my teenage ego at stake, I went on to read philosophers ranging from Plato to Kant, and later found myself enjoying conversations with my professor during breaks about what I had read. In this way, reading became not merely a solipsistic activity, but a means of connecting with others.

Along those lines, I will be honest: I also went through a period of existential turmoil while reading modern existentialist philosophy. At the time, my closest friend held a deeply nihilistic outlook and constantly questioned the meaning of life. I was uneasy about this, as his perspective seemed to verge of despair. One book, in particular, played a central role: The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus. Later, I realized that my friend’s outlook stemmed from having read only the beginning of the book, rather than engaging with it in its entirety. From there, we continued along that path together, gradually reconstructing a shared sense of meaning.