"Already, in Point 1, we proposed that, for us, as consumers of radio and television, the world is no longer present as outside world, in which we are, but as our world. In fact, the world has changed places in a peculiar way: it is certainly not to be found, as the vulgar formulas of idealism state, “in our consciousness”or “in our brain”; however, because of the fact that it has been moved from the outside to the inside and, instead of being found outside, it has made its abode in my house as an image that must be consumed, as a mere eidos, this translocation is similar in the most surprising manner to classical idealism."

Philosophy of mind is the background to moral philosophy; and insofar as modern ethics tends to constitute a sort of Newspeak which makes certain values non-expressible, the reasons for this are to be sought in current philosophy of mind and in the fascinating power of a certain picture of the soul. One suspects that philosophy of mind has not in fact been performing the task […] of sorting and classifying fundamental moral issues; it has rather been imposing upon us a particular value judgement in the guise of a theory of human nature.

For readers it is often said that they will go on reading the novel because it enables them, unlike film or television, to exercise their imaginations, that that is one of its chief attractions for them, that they may imagine the characters and so on for themselves. Not with my novels; it follows from what I have said earlier that I want my ideas to be expressed so precisely that the very minimum of room for interpretation is left. Indeed I would go further and say that to the extent that a reader can impose his own imagination on my words, then that piece of writing is a failure. I want him to see my (vision), not something conjured out of his own imagination. How is he supposed to grow unless he will admit others’ ideas? If he wants to impose his imagination, let him write his own books. That may be thought to be anti-reader; but think a little further, and what I am really doing is challenging the reader to prove his own existence as palpably as I am proving mine by the act of writing.

If the child has not an object that it can occupy itself with, it feels ennui; for it does not yet know how to occupy itself with itself. The youth, on the contrary, throws the object aside, because for him thoughts arose out of the object; he occupies himself with his thoughts, his dreams, occupies himself intellectually, or “his mind is occupied.” The young man includes everything not intellectual under the contemptuous name of “externalities.” If he nevertheless sticks to the most trivial externalities (e.g. the customs of students’ clubs and other formalities), it is because, and when, he discovers mind in them, i.e. when they are symbols to him.

[...]

The child was realistic, taken up with the things of this world, till little by little he succeeded in getting at what was back of these very things; the youth was idealistic, inspired by thoughts, till he worked his way up to where he became the man, the egoistic man, who deals with things and thoughts according to his heart’s pleasure, and sets his personal interest above everything. Finally, the old man? When I become one, there will still be time enough to speak of that.

Some notes on 'thinking in pictures' and the importance of gathering squishy facts

Clarity and cogency of thought are fundamental to my practice. If my thinking—and by extension, my writing—may be analogized as a river, then I hope for it to be a gentle river, whose waters are transparent, and whose streambed is visible. If the words I use to think with become vicious over time—if they begin to splash around, kick up mud, and fog my river of thought—then I must reproach them, remove them, or recognize that I cannot rely on words alone for the transparency I seek.

So it is that I turn to pictures. As a thinker and an artist, my language is not limited to words; it also includes colors, lights, forms, lines, textures. I do not solely think about pictures—I also think in pictures. My thoughts become clear in relation to the quality of the pictures I encounter, whether they be made by me or by others. I can’t exactly explain what happens when I engage in this picture-thinking process. Is it that I start with certain arguments, which are made cogent as they are exemplified through the concrete space of a pictorial plane? Or is it that, through making and observing pictures, my arguments are themselves made and observed. Maybe it's a bit of both.

My interpretation of the pictures I encounter is therefore not aimed toward historical accuracy, but toward thought-clarity. I am conscious that much of what I say about certain pictures is perhaps not what the artists would have agreed with, and I make connections between works which can appear forced. I engage in some distorting, I won’t deny that, because my aim is not to merely circulate information. I use pictures as a philosophical tool; as a concrete space to explore, create, and clarify my thoughts.

How I approach pictures is not just influenced by my philosophical endeavours, but also by the fact that I myself am an artist, who is interested in making pictures. I do not want to only see what the artist did see, or what historians tried to see, but what can eventually be seen. What potentialities hide in this picture? What future works are suggested? What limbs stretch out from this picture which I can latch onto? My interpretation of an artist’s work must diverge from their assumed or explicit intentions, because my interest is in what takes place beyond them. If I limit myself to the 'facts', to accuracy, then I am in a position of staticity, when I wish to be in one of creation.

I once feared that engaging in research would disrupt my ability to come to my own conclusions, whether they were philosophical or artistic. I worried that the facts I discovered would confine my imagination, or worse, disillusion me. And I disliked more than anything the feeling of disillusionment—to have interpreted a picture in one light, only to find out that it was the wrong light, while the correct light was not nearly as illuminating. Why then do I now embrace research, if I wish to keep my delusions intact?

I have since realized that research and delusion are connected. My logic is inspired by Oscar Wilde, who talks of criticism—of interpreting, analyzing, and reviewing art–as “a creation within a creation” (Wilde, 1891/2020, pg. 78). To the critic, value is not primarily found in discovering what the work expresses to them, but in discovering what it impresses on them. Criticism as such “treats the work of art simply as a starting-point for a new creation. It does not confine itself ... to discovering the real intention of the artist and accepting that as final.” (pg. 80).

To criticize is to create, and so the good critic—like the good artist—must allow themselves to departure from reality. They must develop "the temper of a liar, with his frank, fearless statements, his superb irresponsibly, his healthy, natural disdain of proof of any kind!" (pg. 8). The critic must lie, and be honest about it. They must be untethered by the facts, and heal their “careless habits of accuracy.” (pg. 10). Facts must be taken as nothing more than squishy, moist clay; waiting to be molded by the critic’s impressions. The critic musn't avoid research then, because it is only through research that they can gather their material, their squishy facts. More research leads to more material, which leads to a growing configuration of molded facts, whose complex entanglement becomes, in the end, a new creation.

And so it is for this reason that I do research; not to fix my ignorance, not to seek the truth, but to further the complexity of my own delusions.

— Cyber Moonflower

03/17/23