μέγα βιβλίον μέγα κακόν
-Callimachus
The so-called study of Philosophy has, since the time of Diogoones of Goonesia, been a hoax. A grandiose and marvellous hoax, but nevertheless, a hoodwinking. It would take a perceptive, though annoying man to point out the rabbit cage beneath the magician's magic cape, and spoil the show for all the little children of the village. This is the intent and the power of my theory. However, I cannot hope to articulate this theory, or its solution, in so short a space as this mere proglomena permits. Trust me. It just won't work. I lined up for like six hours to get a longer parking permit and the guy just like, stared at me like I was a monkey peeing on his shoes. Apparently they're closed on Sunday for some brunch charity thing? I dunno. It just...It's been a morning, ok? Let's just try again.
Rather than waste the reader's time with endless minute arguments and necessary divagations, I have lighted upon another solution, more agreeable to everyone. That is the solution of this prologue. Namely, instead of writing a big book full of right answers, to write a small one, with no answers at all. This saves me the time of the writing; it saves the reader the time of the reading; it saves the printer the time of the printing; it saves the reviewer the time of reviewing; and most importantly, it saves posterity the trouble of worshipping my remarkable solution to every single problem in the entirety of western, eastern, northern, and even southern philosophy.
Let us then get the question afoot. "How is it..." --- Wait! But how is it possible to pose the question of Philosophy? Hold! Is it not, after all, a question of the very essence of quintessences? But just a moment. And who will pose the question of quintessences? How is that possible? Stop! Is that, after all, not merely a question of language? And in what tongue are we to pose the question of language? Mark this! Is it not a redoubling back on itself, like a Morbidus strip? Very well, but! And who then is there who can broach the needs of the double meaning of language and sign? Tittlee dee hee! Is it not question of reference? But what is the referent? Oh plop. Is it not rather different of the referent to refer to the referee? Is that a foul? Red card? Are you kidding me? No, you fuck off.
Thus we see the difficulty in going down the road to a true introduction to the proglomena to the problems posed by metaphysical speculation. At this point I would like to assure the reader that all of my philosophy is contained in this introduction. The true philosopher can already piece together, from the mere whiffs of my theory, like a good duck still in the oven, the delectable sensation of gobbling it up end to end with delicious honey sauce. Some say the sensation of waiting is better than the eating. So let it be with my grand philosophy. I call it a transvaluation of all values; because it gives YOU, the reader, the value. I have often flirted with the idea of naming it "Beyond Cut and Save; a Philosophy of Coupons".
Before the reader proceeds any further, I will outline the ideal philosophical programme for his upbringing (erziehung): our gentleman philosopher must spend his first 32 years studying the Complete Peanuts in painstaking detail. He may then skip the drolleries of Aristotle and Plato, and focus intently his next 7 years on the deep speculation of The Bugs Bunny and Tweety Show. After that, he will be mad enough to steer his own course; stoppings at the cultural landing points of the delightful tales of Everett True and Mutt and Jeff will satisfy his aesthetic needs. He may then proceed to the rest of this book.
We must now admit the incapacity of Western Philosophy to push beyond the beyond. It has been exhausted, worn out like an old trucker cap on Saint Hattermore's Feast Day. It is to the East, I hint slyfully, that we shall find our culmination. Having once opened a copy of Slauthier's rather sketchy18th century translations from the Sacred books of the Hindus, that is in their tongue, the Goonpanishads, I saw, on page xxi, the phrase Ego ego, sum sum, tibi tibi, tum tum. This astounding philosophy, the "I, I, am, am," is the most supreme example of mysticism and obfucscation the world has ever put forth. We are awed by its incomprehensibility as much as its inscrutability. Clearly something that makes so little sense on first reading must contain the kernel of all true philosophy and dodgy telemarketing salesmanship. The esoteric teaching of the inner sect is the supreme secret of the universe, which I really shouldn't have just laid out like that. That was kind of stupid, I admit. Damn.
It has been said and noted that all great minds are ignored during their own lifetimes. Accordingly, I will not rest until this book is ignored for at least fifteen years. If, during the twilight years of my life, while I am cooped up in some god-forsaken asylum forever silent to the world, a few hints of the earth-rending fame I am destined to appropriate might make themselves apparent in the form of well wishers and famous playwrights, I might condescend to nod a bit between spoonfuls of puree plum-baby mash. But nothing more. I insist that no one in the present generation enjoy this book. That many excoriate its contents as lewd, insane, incomprehensible, and corrupting. That children run screaming down the streets when they see it in the bookshop windows. Only thus will I be satisfied.
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