I've been lucky to have been able to make my living over the years doing what I love to do, teaching curious and exploring minds, staying close to the writings of my curious and exploring mentors, and writing for and with these marvelous mentors.
I’ve written about the great Danish philosopher, Søren Kierkegaard and the great Montana philosopher Henry Bugbee. Most recently, I'm writing on Henry Thoreau. Lost Intimacy in American Thought says little about Kierkegaard but I like to think his spirit is akin to that of Thoreau, Henry Bugbee, Henry James, Stanley Cavell, and others who I travel with in this book.
I love the margins of learning and unlearning, the cordial hospitality and heartfelt goodbyes of Thoreau and Cavell and others I’ve mentioned, but also of Wittgenstein, Emily Dickinson, Simon Critchley, and Basho – writers who read and write and then wonder how words fit with other things, and then go to do otherwise before returning to words (and once again leave them -- for us).
I've taught philosophy and religion for more years than I care to know, starting in 1968 in the Bay Area, where before and after class I descended from my Berkeley home to row an open water scull in choppy salt water. I now just enjoy the fresh water shores in Syracuse, NY, where I love the snow and views of the Finger Lakes – though from there I take frequent excursions to Portland Maine and the islands of Casco Bay, with my wife, a Kierkegaard scholar; or to an alpine biological research station in Gothic, Colorado to visit grandkids and kids.
Each of the essays in Lost Intimacy is composed from an immediate yet lasting impulse to celebrate the impact on my reading and thinking life of a philosopher or writer, and of fragments of their thoughts tendered. Recovering personal philosophy is recovering the transfiguring impacts of writing addressed intimately that may well resonate not just with me, but with an indefinitely large circle of hearers—call it an infinite but intimate universal. Some aspect of the words or sentences of these writers would catch me off-guard, seem to resonate with my deepest interests in ways it was up to me to work out. My final essay is on Thoreau. I’m happy to report my discovery, or rediscovery, that he is so much more than an endearing tramper and outspoken defender of civil resistance. In an adventure rich beyond my wildest dreams, I’ve found a subtle and penetrating philosopher who can hold his own, in range and depth, with Schiller or Schopenhauer—and as Cavell had argued in the early 1970s (to little avail), who can converse with Kant and Wittgenstein. This makes a full circle. Both Bugbee and Cavell learned from and leaned on Thoreau, with whom they worked out their conviction that exposing one’s intimacy with place and one’s friends and others can be worthy philosophy. These essays are late appreciations that are tendered to a circle of writers who testify to the intimate side of reflective philosophical life. They deliver works of remarkable accomplishment despite the dispiriting power of professionalization, and despite the deep pressures in philosophy to disown all intimate exposure in pursuit of a broad dispassionate view from the top. I attempt here a measure of appreciation and a gesture of resistance and transformation, a small step down toward recovery of the personal.