On Limitations and Trust, or on canceling a Lecture.

[A] surfeit or some other cause had chanced to afflict him with a hiccough, which prevented him from speaking; and he could only just say [185d] to Eryximachus the doctor, whose place was next below him, “I look to you Eryximachus, either to stop my hiccough, or to speak in my stead until I can stop it...[snip] Start away with your speech,” said Aristophanes, “and I will do as you advise.”--Plato, Symposium.

In 2003 I got my lucky break; my alma mater invited me for a job talk. The week-end before the talk, I went to Miami Beach to visit my family. I claimed that time on the beach was the best form of preparation for my lecture. Then in a fit of entitlement, I invited the woman, which I had been dating for (at most) two weeks, with me to Boston--we drove up in my convertible, and partied around town while staying in a fancy hotel courtesy of my generous hosts.

I blew the job-talk.

I do not recommend looking in the eyes of people that you know want you to succeed and that you have just let down while you are making small talk with their junior, disinterested colleagues. For the next two years I felt like an ass, praying I would get a second chance in the profession. Since, I treat every talk as an opportunity to give the talk I should have given in the Spring of 2003 in Medford (corrected for experience, new insights, better self-awareness about what works, etc.).  By this I mean that I should be in the position to succeed. (As a proxy, I use the idea that somebody in the audience has to be eager to invite me back.)

Yesterday, I was supposed to give a talk in Munich. I was very excited about it because I admire the formal philosophy group, and I was eager to meet all the smart -- young and more senior -- minds collected there. (I was also happy to be able catch up with some old, dear friends.) While I have the same expectations for myself at each talk,  I was very eager to talk about the nature of formal philosophy with people invested in formal philosophy in Munich. I knew that some of my blogs on this topic had rankled, and I was eager to get to the bottom of the issues with my best possible critics. I didn't expect to reach a conclusion, but I hoped we could generate a multi-level conversation.

 

Then my son had a sudden bout of fever (probably induced by a vaccination shot). I notified my hosts, who graciously offered to postpone. I temporized; I had already invested quite a bit of energy in this talk, and I was eager to use it as a springboard for some articles, blogs, maybe a book. By the time he was in the clear and I had re-organized my travel plans, I had lost the vital period (a day) of turning my slides from a rough outline to an integrated narrative appropriate for the venue and my aims. (That was already cutting it close.) More important, a few crucial conceptual steps in my approach were not quite clear to me yet. I contemplated just talking my way around my talk; I knew that I could say enough controversial things in order to stimulate lively discussion. I could trust myself to rise above my preparation. (Some of the best class discussions have occurred when I was under-prepared.) This is always tempting when you are over-extended; I see 'senior' figures 'wing' talks sometimes. They use their charisma, gravitas (etc.) and their debating/role-playing-skills to prevent their own unmasking.  But, in so doing, they do not respect their audiences (including the young minds that need to be oriented toward the good), the profession, and, ultimately, their integrity.

But postponing turns out to be agonizing. By glancing at the Munich agenda, I could tell I was one of many invited visitors--I could easily imagine that my hosts would be happy to have a two extra hours for their own research. I could also imagine that my paper would be very orthogonal to the living projects of many in Munich. But for me, it was an important fixture in my own mental narrative about the kind of role I want my research to play in my profession. Some such delusions sustain me while I can ignore the fact that most of my papers are un-cited (and presumably unread) not just by the profession at large, but even by folk in my own niche(s).*

My utopian narratives get their sustenance from the embodied experience of giving lectures. My excitement and energy levels mean I literally can't stand still. My movement sustains the focus of my thoughts. (The slides are a cheatsheet.) This is very clear if you look at a recent tape of one of my talks. (See below; you can turn the volume off.) Oddly enough, in the moment I am utterly oblivious to limitations--when I get into the flow of a well worked out talk, I feel capable of violating the laws of natue and casting spells over my audience.  (I did mention delusions above.)

 

Postponing the talk is a simple, logistical decision. But it felt a lot like acknowledging my limitations. By Spinoza's logic this means I am no substance. For me, a philosophical conversation -- be it as a public event or in the intimacy of the study -- cannot be  conjured up out of thin air; it presupposes a lot of material and temporal conditions. I have been blessed with lots of second chances, and privileges not accorded to others. I know that Seneca teaches trust in oneself as one such crucial precondition. But, perhaps, there is also a road to wisdom that recognizes one should not trust oneself, too much.

 

* Even though there is structural unfairness in these matters, I am not complaining; things have worked out better for me than I ever imagined. A lot of other ignored folk deserve more attention; there is just so much time in any day.