Complexity: my being complex

 

I have always loved Kant, the German philosopher. Actually, I loved all philosophers... but Kant was special to me. He deeply resonated with me—or perhaps it's the other way round: I was deeply resonating with him.

At five, I taught myself to read. I devoured all the children's literature available, but it quickly became boring. Luckily, there were plenty of books at home, and my exploration began. Concept books weren't my thing yet, but history books became my passion—books for adults that explained history with a deep eye on the causes behind events. That awakened my curiosity for the ultimate cause, and philosophy seemed to be the answer.

Don't forget that I'm an Asperger. My brain works differently from so-called normality. So don't be surprised that I was reading these topics at such an early age.

At ten, I told my father about this deep interest and that I needed something more to read. At home there were books by classical philosophers—I vaguely remember Plato, Socrates—that I had tried to approach, but they proved too difficult even for my stubborn will. Besides, they weren't books narrating the general development of human thought.

One day he came back with three high school philosophy textbooks. I still remember the deep emotions making me tremble inside: Now, finally, I was going to have answers! I couldn't know yet that philosophy means gaining even more questions—because philosophy is simply the result of many reflections on life, its purpose and meaning, and on what we humans should better accomplish.

I need to add something else. I grew up with English. My father was the only soul with whom there was deep understanding and resonance, and English was my father's language. He was born in Cairo, under British protectorate at that time. My father and his brothers went to British schools; the sisters to French ones.

When I was about to enter school at six, I was told it was time to begin French lessons at the French Consulate. I had already begun with English—I didn't know that French was something I was supposed to learn. I couldn't understand the reason. So I said: "I would rather prefer German..."

I will never forget the sudden surprise and incredulity of my parents, who turned their heads toward me, asking: "Why German?"

It was 1959. Although more than ten years had passed since the end of the war, those years of massacres and violence were still vivid. The Germans had been the invaders...

Besides, why German? No one ever talked about them, and if they did, it was only to express the fear and terror they had spread. There were no connections with that culture. How did I possibly come out with that idea, one that seemed so deep and also incredibly certain?

I couldn't tell, but deep within there was an inexplicable longing toward what resonated like "home."

We reached an agreement. I would go to French classes now. At ten, I'd attend summer camps in the French-speaking Swiss region. In the meanwhile, they would find a solution for my desire.

This is just to say: there was within me an innate predisposition toward German.

It took a while before I could read and understand the philosophy books. I remember reading and understanding nothing. And pushing myself to read again and again until something began to open up within. I remember being surprised at the initial questions the philosophers posed. Actually, everything depends on the question. 

The memory is still vivid: that astonished feeling of revelation because, although I was a very reflective child, some questions were a total surprise to me. It hadn't occurred to me that I could ask that kind of questions! It felt like opening doors I wasn't aware they were there.

Of course, the German philosophers were my world. I found my brain's attitude in them, and with Kant there was total resonance. And when I finally learned German, my brain was at home. The articulated distinctions and precision were the perfect ground for my thinking. I felt fulfilled! German seems able to articulate complexity. And I am a complex being. A complex being in a world of a chaotic humanity.