Fire Philosophy: Nietzsche, Zen, and How to Live

Below you will find the two part essay on which our conversation revolves.

Part I:

Part II:

Sound bites from our converation:

“There’s a vertigo to it… output after output, until you’ve lost the basic things a thinking person does: stop, inspect, think through, critique. It’s so easy to lose control of the car.”— Krzysztof

“The deeper goal of education was never the essay, or the grade, or the degree, or the good job. It’s to build and cultivate what’s going on in here.”— Dale

“We don’t go to Socrates to confirm his views. We go to Socrates to learn the value of thinking, of asking questions.”— Krzysztof

“The third thing is just presence: being who you are, where you are, when you are. And it has everything to do with happiness.”— Dale

“The great line in Zen is that to get to where your master is, you have to go beyond your master. You have to do something unique that’s yours alone.”— Dale

“Nietzsche isn’t a herald of the future. He invites a digestion: look to the past, digest it, grow through it instead of worshiping it or fleeing into the bourgeois future.”— Krzysztof

“Nietzsche wasn’t a philosopher, he was a classicist. Studying the ancient texts made him into a philosopher. It made him think.”— Dale

“The will to master technology is itself a technological way of thinking. We see AI coming and our first impulse is, we’ve got to get ahead of it — but that impulse may be the trap.”— Krzysztof

“Heidegger is really Zen-like: that ability to step back into receptivity and just see what’s coming.”— Dale

“People aren’t freaking out about the artists. They’re freaking out because what’s being replaced is the lawyers, the accountants, every prestigious job people trained for. And the only ironically safe field is philosophy, the one we’ve spent thirty years disparaging.”— Krzysztof

“We say artificial intelligence. But can we say artificial wisdom and have that mean anything?”— Dale

“What’s unprecedented isn’t the speed or the computational power. It’s that we’re seeing the kernels of judgment arising the one thing we thought we had sovereignty over.”— Krzysztof

“We set the danger up as AI becoming more like us. But the real danger, at least right now, is us becoming more like AI.”— Dale

“Productivity is not, despite everything you’ve been told, the only thing that makes you valuable. That’s what I’m trying to warn my students about.”— Krzysztof

“Real aspiration has to stay open to the thing that will change everything for you, something you couldn’t have planned in advance. That’s satori. It only appears in the open mind.”— Dale

“It’s a good time not to do philosophy but to be philosophical. Philosophy means the love of wisdom and it’s a good time for some wisdom.”— Dale

“The past is our index of the hard practices: jujitsu, Zen, writing, learning a language. You have to actually do them, they’re hard, and that’s exactly how they transform you. The seduction of AI is the easy answer: we end up knowing everything and being moral infants.”— Krzysztof

“Take some of your free time and use it to build your freedom. Take on a discipline. Learn the language, learn to paint, learn the guitar.”— Dale

We offer Fire Philosophy as a space for living questions—for Nietzsche’s provocations, Zen’s paradoxes and silences, and the uneasy beauty of learning how to live with courage and imagination.

We offer this free of charge. But if you find value in our brief essays, video interviews and dialogues that challenge and unsettle our lives while nourishing and invigorating them, please consider becoming a paid subscriber or sharing us with others. Your support keeps stoking our collective 🔥.

~ Krzysztof and Dale

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Fire Philosophy

On Michael Pollan’s A World Appears: A Journey into Consciousness

A conversation between Krzysztof Piekarski and Dale Wright

Krzysztof: Greetings, Fire Philosophers. I’m here with Dale Wright, and we’ve both just finished reading A World Appears: A Journey into Consciousness by Michael Pollan. Pollan enters the world of Zen in this book, so it felt like an appropriate text for us to take up.

Dale: When you first suggested it, I said something like, “Yeah, good idea.” But my real inner thought was, “Really?” Consciousness is what’s called a really hard problem, because you can never get out of it to look at it. You can’t bring it before you as an object. We’re at war, our institutions are in chaos, our culture is deeply divided, and we each have our own problems. Do we really want to go there?

Dale: And yet I did, and it was just the tonic I needed. It lifted me out of the concrete issues I struggle with every day and up into a place where you’re thinking broadly. That breadth gets brought back to bear on the practical, difficult issues. So it was good for me, even though my first response was resistance.

Krzysztof: Look at you persevering. Let’s start with definitions. There’s another book I’ve had on my shelf called Nineteen Ways of Looking at Consciousness, and a good rhetorician starts by defining terms. What landed for me, maybe reductively, is that there are layers of increasing complexity. We go from the inanimate, like a rock, to intelligence, something like a computer, to sentience, where we look at plants and say, “Okay, they obviously feel things,” to the animal layer, where we apply the word consciousness, and then ever-increasing amounts.

Dale: Layer or level is a good word. The structure of the brain has those various layers, from the brain stem up to the cerebral cortex.

Krzysztof: Having read the book, what is your working definition of consciousness, and is it different than when you began?

Dale: I doubt it. This is something I’ve been pondering and meditating on for most of my life. But I really appreciated the book. To the title you mentioned, Nineteen Ways of Looking at Consciousness: for me, that’s nineteen ways of using this one word, nineteen meanings we apply when we use it. The word itself is creating more confusion than clarity. We get stuck on it, as if consciousness is one important thing in the world we have to define. Really, our awareness of it has to do with our vocabulary for it.

Dale: Pollan helped clarify what I’ve always thought of as layers of deepening consciousness. From sentience at the bottom: a tree is sentient in that when the sun comes out, trees that close down at night respond and turn toward it. Plants have this kind of awareness. Awareness is a more helpful word than consciousness. Then, working up to self-awareness, you get more sophisticated forms.

Krzysztof: Plants are how Pollan enters this world. There’s an interesting part where some plant biologists are saying, look, if it has a kind of memory, and we can anesthetize it, then you have memory and the feeling of pain or no pain. Maybe the difference is really time. Maybe plants are beyond sentient, and we’re just imposing our timeframes onto them. Pollan mentions that thought experiment about aliens looking down at humans at thousandth speed, who would see us as plants just standing around.

Dale: It’s helped some botanists actually push in that direction. They’re finding things we just don’t see. No doubt projecting consciousness onto plants. But there’s an awareness there that’s really interesting, that we’re only beginning to explore.

Krzysztof: We’re going into the deep end. You know all the recent studies about rainforests as ecological systems: families, awareness of which tree is kin, which is enemy. This gets dicey faster than it gets resolved. I’m a vegetarian mostly for ethical reasons, because I don’t want to cause unnecessary suffering on conscious beings. But if plants are more conscious than I assumed, what am I going to eat? Cotton candy all day?

Dale: Rocks. Just rocks. A nice bowl of sand.

Dale: There’s a tradition among some physicists and some religious seers called panpsychism. There are scientific versions where you study elementary particles and see a certain kind of spirit in matter, because matter is energy, matter is movement. Physicists have done experiments where it seems like particles will opt for one thing or another: wave, not wave. Panpsychism is the view that there is no ultimate split between matter and mind, that all the way down into the tiniest elementary particles there is what’s called proto-consciousness. The whole split between life and non-life begins to fade. Hindus, going back thousands of years, worked on a version of this, where pantheism saw everything as having a divine element, from the highest seers down into matter. Some kinds of physics and neuroscience are now leading back toward that as a plausible suggestion.

Krzysztof: I’m glad you brought that up. Buddhism 101: you wrote a book about it, so you’re the guy. There’s atman, which I always understood as oneness. Whereas in Buddhism, the teaching is anatman, the not-that. Is Buddhism’s response to Hinduism a critique of panpsychism, because you’re starting to get closer to wanting there to be an essence again?

Dale: Maybe a little, but more it’s that the word atman, going back into earlier Sanskrit, was a reflexive pronoun, like myself. The formula in Vedanta is that atman, your deepest self, is brahman, the divine spirit. The religious message: you don’t have to look outside yourself for divinity. Buddhism is a denial, in part, of there being a deep, eternal self. They want to think of what you call yourself as a finite, temporal phenomenon: comes into the world at a certain time, goes out at a certain time. There’s nothing permanent about you or anything else.

Krzysztof: So the Buddhist critique doesn’t apply exactly to panpsychism? The construction of self is a local critique, but the total field, in early Buddhism, is not part of the picture, while as Buddhism evolves, it comes back?

Dale: That’s right. Versions of, okay, there is a spirit operating in the world of impermanence. What’s the ground of that? That gets back toward a divine essence. So Buddhism denies it, brings it back, denies it, brings it back.

Krzysztof: And the emptiness teachings disrupt it when it gets too solid for the Buddhists’ liking.

Krzysztof: This is how we started before we hit record: hard problems of our own. Famously, David Chalmers said consciousness splits into two problems. The easy one: map where this is happening in our brains using MRIs. The hard problem is hard because, well, why does it seem so hard from his perspective?

Dale: Structurally, it’s the only thing we want to examine where you can’t get behind it. The examiner is always that thing, that consciousness. I can’t step behind myself and analyze my consciousness, because consciousness is the one doing the analyzing.

Dale: It’s also made hard, as Pollan points out, by the fact that many of the scientists and philosophers who study consciousness rarely explore their own. They don’t engage in meditation. They don’t work in phenomenology, which says, go inside and see what experience looks like from the inside. They don’t engage in psychoanalysis. On the one hand, they’re smartly engaging with consciousness as an object of study. On the other, they’re missing the chance to attune that objective analysis with what it looks like from the inside.

Krzysztof: Pollan equates Chalmers with Descartes, Galileo, and Locke, the philosophers who basically split subject and object. Any time I teach my Zen students the basics, I point them to this: what is the difference between duality and a Buddhist sense of non-duality? My question is whether Dogen would read this and think, “Yeah, I get it, this is a hard problem,” or “No, that’s the whole problem. You’re thinking dualistically, and if you get out of that, the hard problem disappears.”

Dale: Great question. Let me come back to it. I want to stress that Descartes is the beginning of modern philosophy, but he’s really mapping what had been developing for several millennia. Go back far enough in any culture and there’s no self-consciousness. It’s an emergent property at some point. A few centuries BCE, soul theory begins to develop: mind versus matter, spirit versus body. That’s when you get ascetics out torturing their bodies because they’ve learned to say, “I’m not my body. I am my soul.” That setup leads further and further into monasticism, into meditative monasticism, into philosophers like Descartes.

Krzysztof: It’s the seed for how science is born.

Dale: That’s right. Separate yourself out. Be objective. Get your consciousness out of the picture. What we’ve learned more recently is, no, you are there. Pollan mentions a great line from Milan Kundera: the Cartesian “I think, therefore I am” is a statement from an intellectual who underrates toothaches. Descartes’s conclusion comes from being in a monastic lineage where it’s only spirit and mind, forgetting the deep levels of feeling and sentience from which consciousness emerges. Interest in the body is back now. From the 19th century, the Olympics return. Medical science teaches us about the body. Diet matters. All of that is a movement beyond Cartesian focus on mind alone.

Krzysztof: So back to the question. Would Dogen dismiss this question outright? Or is there something he would acknowledge as hard about the way we trap ourselves?

Dale: Much of what Dogen writes is a response to this inner problem. But he’s finding solutions. He shows us we can enter experience where we merge with mountains and streams, enter pure awareness, go deep into meditation. We have to realize, too, that the reason we love Dogen now is that he gets read through the Romantic turn in Western culture. You and I are Romantics, if you trace our lineage. We want spiritual depth. We want to see past materiality, past money, past career. That comes from the Romantic tradition, a turn against industrialization. So maybe your first point was right: Dogen wouldn’t even understand the question. But I can’t help reading Zen as an introspective culture that does see consciousness as an issue. How do we not let it bog us down and trap us in self-absorption?

Krzysztof: What I love about Pollan is that he puts himself into the experiment and critiques himself. As a journalist, he’s not above any of it. He goes to a Zen retreat, and Joan Halifax, his teacher there, tells him to look for a thief. Imagine your mind as a series of rooms; you’re looking for the thief, which I think is a stand-in for the self. The implication: when you don’t find that thief, you experience relief.

Krzysztof: Simultaneously, from a more scientific perspective, he talks about why our minds evolutionarily constructed this sense of self. I found a delicious tension between relief on one hand, and on the other, oh, if you want relief, you’re messing with something potentially disastrous if you completely unlock it. Probably this is why in Zen you work with a teacher: so you’re not just in there poking around dissolving your sense of self. And maybe also why some psychedelic trips go very poorly: too much too soon, and you can’t reconstruct, can’t unsee something. What’s your sense of this?

Dale: There’s something called Zen sickness. An acolyte goes into a temple and they say, “Sit down, shut up, start meditating.” For some people, if they took the picture of looking in the rooms of your mind for a thief, the answer would be, yes, in fact there are several. They’re looting the pantry.

Dale: So you need help, and that’s what a Zen master is for. They can see, and hopefully will say, “Okay, I could take you further into this, but go home. Go back to the family farm. Plant some rice. This isn’t the right thing for you, maybe not now, maybe not at all.” That kind of inner exploration carries risks. The point of looking in every room for a thief and discovering it’s not there is liberating. It doesn’t mean there aren’t issues in those rooms. If you take it as no thief, no need to think about anything, then you’re really screwed.

Krzysztof: I was wondering whether we’d bring Nietzsche into this. There are many theories about the end of his life. What I think I know about him, his greatest accomplishment, is his fortitude in continuing to explore. Hell or high water, he was going to explore. A facile thesis: maybe he explored a little too much. It feels like there ought to be a Pandora’s box warning on all of this.

Dale: Either he couldn’t stop, or he just wouldn’t. His introspective capacities were enormous. He felt alone. A few people who read his writings would say, “This is unbelievably great, but dangerous. Let’s pull back.” My sense is he felt, “This is brilliant, this is insight, and I’m going to go get it and speak it. I’m not going to be afraid.” What his end-of-life insanity was about, who knows. We can’t analyze somebody who lived over a century ago.

Krzysztof: There’s a sort of villain in this book, to my readerly eyes. Overstating it. But there’s one interlocutor: Hurlburt. His instructions to Pollan were, in effect, “Be as precise as possible when describing what you actually experience.” Phenomenology 101: not the content, but the process. Pollan tries it, and what he gets back from Hurlburt is that his inner life is quite shallow, because he can’t put a pin on what is actually happening. Pollan ends up critiquing that approach. What was your take on their dance?

Dale: The inability to describe in detail what’s going on in your mind is one we all share. We’re all shallow in that respect. If there’s a spectrum from unintrospective to introspective, Pollan’s way along the line. This book is part of that.

Dale: One of the brilliant dimensions of this book, and of him as an interrogator, is how he explores theories. He doesn’t just read a book and say, “Here’s what I learned.” He reads the book, then flies to London or gets them on Zoom and interviews them. The whole book is interviews with neuroscientists, philosophers, others exploring consciousness. He never settles into any of them. Just explores this one, raises questions, looks at another, puts them in juxtaposition. I can’t name what he doesn’t work on.

Dale: One of the great things about living in our time is that we can do that. We don’t have to follow the rabbit hole of one teacher or one religious group or even one culture. We have access to all of these things. We can see them in relation to each other, see strengths and weaknesses, see how they merge and don’t. That’s something previous cultures didn’t have.

Krzysztof: I found it delicious. That’s why I skipped ahead to say he ends at a Zen retreat, which from my biased perspective, and probably yours, is a very obvious place to end.

Dale: He uses the word practice. He says at the very end, “What I really learned is that all kinds of theory is great, but practice is the key.” Practice of interiority. That’s his lesson in the cave at the end of the Zen retreat.

Krzysztof: I sensed something while reading this. If I were a Zen teacher and Michael came to me, knowing his brilliance and willingness to experiment, but he’s an academic, a writer, up in his head, how would I give him a taste of Zen practice? Pretty much what Joan Halifax does. She sits him in a cave and says, in effect, do what you would do in a cave by yourself. Look at the stars. Sit and feel. Otherwise it’s just another theory among theories. He gives us a little of it: the clouds parted, and in his experience, he dropped in. Dropped into that larger cosmic space. I love the way it ends there.

Dale: Me too. And it was partly that there wasn’t one theory he could in the end say was his. He wasn’t able to synthesize them all into his own. In a way he’s saying, “I’m not sure I care. I’ve learned so much, but what I’ve learned primarily is that practice is the key. Observe my consciousness. I’ve only got so many more years to live. Deal with the self-inflicted pain. Learn to relax. Learn to appreciate the consciousness that animals and babies and children have, that’s not caught up in planning and imagining, that’s really just taking in the world. Learn how to do that again.”

Dale: One of his interviewees said the older we get, the more our mind is taken out of the world, out of direct experience, and the more we’re in planning, daydreaming, worrying, anticipating consequences. Communicating with people, on our phones, scrolling. Not really in direct contact with the world. Maybe especially true of intellectuals, but I think it’s true for all of us.

Krzysztof: This is where some people encounter a danger zone. You used the phrase return, almost as though you meant the intention is to return to the more childlike state, where wonder isn’t yet hardened. T. S. Eliot spoke about this: returning and seeing it again as if for the first time. The danger is that it’s always a sequence. You start there, you’re born a child, you have to construct an ego. When you deconstruct it, your memory isn’t wiped out. You don’t actually return to the childlike state. Literally, you would be a child again. You’ve retained enough from the mid-journey to know you’re both an adult and a child at the same time. In Nietzsche’s transformations, the highest form is the child again. But it’s not as simple as that.

Dale: That’s right. Nobody really wants to become a two-year-old again. They’re wailing. As we know from neuroscience, everything you’ve done with your mind is there. The activity of meditation, or any form of self-transcendence, or engagement in music or art, is to open up some portal back into a powerful direct experience that you’ll experience along with all the planning and cogitation that go on inevitably. You will never get out of that. If somebody did get out of all the development of their mind, it would be a form of insanity.

Krzysztof: That is one of the issues with the so-called psychedelic shortcut, though I’m not sure shortcut is the right word. It’s treacherous because, chemically, it disarms you. You return to that state, but you don’t have the relational perspective from which to gauge it. You almost become incapacitated, as though you were a child.

Dale: Reasonably controlled use of hallucinogenic substances is just a taste of something quite other than ordinary consciousness. In my own limited experience, you do feel it as a retaste of childhood. One of my earliest memories is being a three-year-old finger painting: the blue and the red, so vivid, my hands in it, the color is everything. There’s a taste of that in a hallucinogenic experience. Fortunately, it only lasts a couple of hours.

Krzysztof: Or an infinite amount of time, from the perspective of the person on the journey.

Krzysztof: One of the best definitions in the book, the one that made me pause: consciousness is felt uncertainty. I thought, is that good enough for a tattoo? In Zen, at least some forms of it, we’re encouraged to tap into don’t-know mind, to luxuriate in uncertainty, as Keats said about negative capability. You’re there to not know. The flip side is that the uncertainty will always be there, but the perceiver is what’s at issue, and we want to dissolve the one who feels the uncertainty. I don’t know if that’s a tension, or two sides of the same coin.

Dale: I was struck by it too, and I’d never come across that. Consciousness is felt uncertainty: the is seems too strong. But if I think back into early human, prehistorical life, and into evolutionary levels of animals, that uncertainty does generate consciousness. You’ve got to find food, stay out of danger. The vulnerability, the sense that our bodies are real and destroyable, gives rise to a lot of consciousness. And the realization humanity comes across at a certain point: it’s not just that I see other people die, but I can die. That gives rise to enormous inner speculation.

Krzysztof: Let me unpack the formula for listeners who haven’t read it yet. When you’re operating on habitual mind, say you’re driving a familiar route, we’ve all warped from point A to point B and not remembered anything in between, because everything was as expected. In that sense we weren’t conscious of that bit of road. The moment a tiger jumps out, or there’s an unexpected bike, we notice, because we couldn’t have predicted it. That creates the feeling of, oh, we’re back.

Dale: Good. But I’d say during that half hour you can’t remember, you weren’t unconscious. Your mind was really active. You were daydreaming. You were drooling over the Porsche in the lane next to you. Lots was going on. So it’s not that consciousness arises out of uncertainty in those instances. You’re conscious of many different things. When something dangerous pops up, consciousness leaps into a special mode, a heightened form. But you’re always conscious.

Krzysztof: So this is the fine distinction between consciousness as the base, and awareness, which is conscious of what. Just because you weren’t aware of the road, you were conscious but not aware. We need both.

Dale: You were conscious of the road, but aware of your daydream.

Krzysztof: Both simultaneously, unless you practice.

Krzysztof: You raised another point, which Pollan himself says you can only experience and can’t talk about: pure awareness has no subject. People who’ve taken massive doses of the most potent psychedelics report there was no anchor, and yet it was the truest thing they experienced. I was thinking of one of the most famous philosophical papers of all time, which Pollan alludes to: Nagel’s What Is It Like to Be a Bat? I assign it all the time. From this perspective, it makes a grand assumption: that you need subjectivity for consciousness. These explorers are saying something else.

Dale: There is subjectivity right there, because there is experience. You’re experiencing. There’s no “I’m the experiencer, here’s what I’m experiencing.” There’s just the experience. That’s all you’re aware of.

Krzysztof: Pure experience the way we’re talking about it: the subject piece is just extra mechanics. You don’t need it. Maybe that’s the same thing as panpsychism. There is no inside, outside.

Dale: No hard line between inside and outside.

Dale: One thing that’s important: oftentimes the claim is made, and experientially you can see, that what comes out of pure experience beyond individual subjectivity is a deep relationship to everything. Moral behavior becomes natural. It’s not that you need to make yourself treat the other nicely. You just are, because that line of separation is at least temporarily eased. You begin to sense the feelings of others as you sense your own. The claim that a sort of pure, isolated subjectivity in self-control is needed for morality is at least partly false.

Krzysztof: Right, which calls up my favorite line of all time. Dylan: “to live outside the law, you must be honest.” That’s my own life koan: how do you get to that space where you just know, you don’t need to be told.

Krzysztof: Speaking of koans. I find a delicious tension running through all of this. We need form, we shape our sense of self. We can’t allow ourselves to get run over by a bus.

Dale: Like a three-year-old would.

Krzysztof: And simultaneously, this is what drew Nietzsche to the Greeks: how they explored the boundlessness, but were just as interested in the form of things. The tension between form and boundlessness, the Apollonian and the Dionysian. Why are we so fascinated by trying to transcend the self, and yet we work so damn hard to reify it and achieve, achieve, achieve? This is maybe the mess of humanity. We want both.

Dale: We do. Both are important. We can plan and scheme as well as anyone. But we sense there’s something outside and beyond that, and that there’s a trap, where the controlled state of consciousness is a closing down. For me, artists and musicians are a counterbalance for anybody who’s in my state of excellence at planning. An artist or musician strives to open up, let something in, block out the plans. Wander through the natural world. Hear things in ways we ordinarily don’t. We walk through the park and never hear a bird, never see a leaf, because we’re totally in our heads.

Dale: But they need the other side too. At a certain point, the artist has to close the door and look at what came in. How are you going to write a song out of those noises the creaky truck made? How are you going to turn a bird in flight into something you saw that’s another dimension of reality? Now you’ve got to think. Now you’re back with us. It’s painful, and artists hate it, but it’s the only way to create. So we want both. They’re a matched set.

Krzysztof: This was one of the more obvious takeaways I got, and yet it surprised me. I’m referring to my own curiosity about myself. I wondered why I decided to get a PhD in literature. I came from the world of science, biology and chemistry on my way to pre-med, and there was a flip. A switch came on, and wondering what this all is took precedence over labeling and dissecting. To me, every work of art is its own little encapsulated consciousness. There’s no other way to experience that thing besides through the medium of the artist. You’re sampling multiple realities.

Dale: That’s what art is. Novelists are the premier phenomenologists, where phenomenology means interior introspective examination of what is appearing. Novels were born in the 18th century, you’re the expert here, and really get going in the 19th. Then modernism: Proust, Virginia Woolf, James Joyce, Henry James, whose ability to introspect and describe what’s going on in their characters’ minds, by virtue of describing what’s going on in their own, is just extraordinary. And Krzysztof, you wrote your dissertation on David Foster Wallace, who was a next-stage genius at that same thing.

Krzysztof: Pollan takes us back to Joyce and Woolf, and Proust to some extent, as novelists who are extremely brilliant at almost looking at the outside minutely, with all the nuances of which words exactly float to the top. You know what always surprised me? People classify those novels as impossible. “Oh, Joyce, I can’t read him.” Woolf doesn’t make sense. There’s a counterintuitive thing going on. If, in our own minds, we’re always looping in these ways, you would think reading those stream-of-consciousness novels would be a relief. Finally, here’s a thing I could resonate with. But it’s the opposite.

Dale: Here’s a chance to see what you’ve been doing. But that seeing is painful and awkward. If you’re not at least partly introspective to begin with, you won’t even see it. Just, ugh, nonsense, a bunch of words. So it is hard. Introspection is difficult. The difference between knowing what’s going on in your mind and knowing what’s going on around you is huge. We know a lot about what’s in front of us. But what’s going on in our mind: that’s much more difficult.

Krzysztof: And scary. I remember one of the first times I sat zazen. There was this quality, not of physical discomfort, but a sort of surface-level terror. What am I going to discover when I slow down enough to see what’s actually happening, especially in our productivity-juiced, capitalistic conveyor belt? Did you experience something like that?

Dale: Difficult, yeah. I began meditating in a chair, so when I got to Zen, the pain of sitting was real. But the Zen teacher’s going to say, “That’s interesting. Experience that. Feel that. Is that damaging you? No. Then observe it. Find out what part of your mind it is.” So you begin to examine things, explore them. If they’re things you want to avoid, what do you do about it?

Krzysztof: Dale, here at Fire Philosophy we always ask, implicitly, how we should live, given whatever text we’re examining. I think I know how you might answer, but I’ll let you speak for yourself.

Dale: You tell me what you think I’m going to say. You want me to guess? That’s boring.

Krzysztof: This was a delightful book, in part because Pollan was flexible through the different theories. He wasn’t aiming to prove one thing above another. He lived with the heart of a true journalist: no matter what he encountered, he learned something, tested it, then went to the next thing. That’s a life of curiosity. That’s what was on display.

Dale: Curiosity about something close to home, right back in his own head. If you want to read one book about consciousness, this is the book. The other ones I’ve read are anything but delightful. Part of my resistance to this one was that they seem so abstracted, so caught in feedback loops that aren’t going anywhere. From the neuroscience, maybe you can figure out a lesson about how to live, but I’m not sure what it is. From the practical, exploratory point of view, where everything I’m studying has some relationship to how to live, it’s more difficult to draw a connection. But if one person has done it, it’s Pollan. Partly because he’s such a delightful person. Big smile. Asks good questions. It’s all in dialogue. He doesn’t pontificate. He offers his own rebuttals. Never steps up to a soapbox.

Krzysztof: You reminded me, in the early days of Fire Philosophy I really wanted to read Robert Sapolsky’s Determined, about free will. I remember your resistance, and that’s interesting because it’s the same flavor. When somebody has a theory, they can’t see beyond that wall, and for our purposes, that’s not how to live. As in your piece on Goethe: live with imagination. Live from imagination, not certainty. That’s what this book showed in spades.

Dale: If there’s a koan that has stumped Western thought, it’s the standoff between free will and determinism. From other points of view, you’ve got the question wrong. You’re going to get stuck in it forever. Analytic philosophy is beginning to work out ways to slip out of the knot, but not so quickly.

Krzysztof: So, Dale: five fireballs?

Dale: Five fireballs, indeed. 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

Krzysztof: We’d love to hear from our listeners and readership. We invite your comments and further dialogue!

We offer Fire Philosophy as a space for living questions—for Nietzsche’s provocations, Zen’s paradoxes and silences, and the uneasy beauty of learning how to live with courage and imagination.

We offer this free of charge. But if you find value in our brief essays, video interviews and dialogues that challenge and unsettle our lives while nourishing and invigorating them, please consider becoming a paid subscriber or sharing us with others. Your support keeps stoking our collective 🔥.

~ Krzysztof and Dale

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit firephilosophy.substack.com/subscribe

We offer Fire Philosophy as a space for living questions—for Nietzsche’s provocations, Zen’s paradoxes and silences, and the uneasy beauty of learning how to live with courage and imagination.

We offer this free of charge. But if you find value in our brief essays, video interviews and dialogues that challenge and unsettle our lives while nourishing and invigorating them, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your support keeps stoking our collective 🔥.

~ Krzysztof and Dale

Fire Philosophy welcomes back Stephen Batchelor to further explore his new book Buddha, Socrates and Us and the surprising possibility that the Buddha and Socrates were true contemporaries. We discuss what it means to paint a “Buddhist portrait” of Socrates, and how his relentless questioning echoes the critical, dialectical side of Buddhism that often gets overshadowed by its non-conceptual, “stop thinking” reputation. We also dive into complex territory: Buddhism’s uneasy history with violence and pacifism, Socrates’s role as a soldier, and what an honest, secular Buddhist ethics might look like in a world of wars, nation-states, and messy human motivations.

Along the way, Stephen reflects on how East and West now coexist inside many of us, the dangers of turning the Dharma into spiritual ego, and why the Buddha’s parable of the snake is still such a sharp warning. It’s a conversation about thought and silence, war and compassion, tradition and reinvention—anchored in the concrete ongoing question of how to live now.

You can listen to our first conversation here:

You can find Stephen’s work, his art, and his other interviews and teachings at www.stephenbatchelor.org.

Books by our own Dale Wright:🔥 The Six Perfections: Buddhism and the Cultivation of Character Philosophical 🔥 Meditations on Zen Buddhism🔥 Living Skillfully: Buddhist Philosophy of Life🔥 What Is Buddhist Enlightenment?Buddhism: What Everyone Needs to KnowA series of five books on Zen Buddhism co-edited with Steven Heine and published by Oxford University Press—🔥The Koan🔥The Zen Canon🔥Zen Classics 🔥Zen Ritual🔥Zen Masters🔥 Theological Reflection and the Pursuit of Ideals, co-edited with David Jasper

Below are some excerpts from our conversation above. We hope you enjoy it and respond with your own insights, questions and resonances.

Because of the hypothesis that Buddha and Socrates lived at the same time, I was then able to more realistically imagine someone who had been born in India had maybe spent the first 10 or 15 years of the Buddhist teaching career with the Buddha, and for whatever reasons, then found themselves heading westward, crossing over the Persian Empire, and finally landing in Athens.  So it enables me, as it were, to then have to been able to see ancient Greece, Socrates, the playwrights and so on through the eyes of a Buddhist of that period.

 But what does Socrates or these Greeks say about human suffering?  Because Plato doesn’t mention suffering at all. The Greek philosophers don’t really seem to think it’s an appropriate topic for philosophy. It’s as simple as that.

 And in the School of Buddhism in which I which I was studying, the Gelugpa, they actively instruct you in dialectics and debate. And in fact this training, which goes on for some years, is very much embedded in the importance of critical thinking. And the critical thinking that I was trained in was largely, first of all becoming much more conscious of the trickiness of language itself.

 I think we have to see for ourselves the contradictions within our own thinking patterns, within our own concepts and ideas in order to to be able to put them down. Otherwise, we’ll just think that we might have seen through these ideas where in fact they’re still operating quite actively within us and just perpetuating the same pictures of the world.  So what I like about Socrates is that his way of getting people to come to terms with their preconceived ideas is to subject them to a very intense kind of testing or inquiry to make people become conscious of the contradictions and conflicts within their own.

 If you think that meditation is just about stopping thinking, then you’re really no different from a cow sitting in a field.

The thing that differentiates Gotama and Socrates the most is their relationship to violence. And yet the Buddha is basically saying, don’t kill anyone and don’t if you’re a monk, especially, have any sexual engagement with another person at all. So you have a very, very strong rejection of sex and violence. And in the Greek world, you don’t have anything remotely similar. Both are seen as part of life. They’re never really held up for criticism. So that is a big difference, obviously.

 Buddhism is traditionally pacifist for the lay person or for the monk. To kill a human being is completely not allowed. But if you look at the actual history of Buddhism, you’ll see that Buddhists have behaved just like everybody else.

 So coming to Socrates, I think there’s a level of honesty going on there that I’m not finding in Buddhism. I think Buddhism has got a very ambiguous relationship with violence.

 I think what really is important in this process, is at some point being able to have within yourself a genuine dialogue between what I sometimes call my inner Buddhist and my inner Greek these are two things that have grown up, not simultaneously, but in the course of my life.

 A lot of my life has been spent with Buddhism. So clearly a large hunk of me is Buddhist. But I don’t feel totally comfortable self-identifying just as a Buddhist. I’m not just a Buddhist. I don’t think any of us are. I don’t think it’s possible.

 And that’s a clear reference to the parable of the snake in the Pali canon where the Buddha is saying that the dharma is basically dangerous, like a snake is dangerous. If you don’t handle it properly, it will actually come back and bite you.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit firephilosophy.substack.com/subscribe

We offer Fire Philosophy as a space for living questions—for Nietzsche’s provocations, Zen’s paradoxes and silences, and the uneasy beauty of learning how to live with courage and imagination.

We offer this free of charge. But if you find value in our brief essays, video interviews and dialogues that challenge and unsettle our lives while nourishing and invigorating them, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your support keeps stoking our collective fire.

~ Krzysztof and Dale

The above conversation draws on Dale’s five part series about courage. Below are the installments to give you heart in the midst of life’s challenges. We en-courage-you to read and reflect on them before listening to our conversation above; and if you know someone who could use some encouragement, please share this series with them.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit firephilosophy.substack.com/subscribe

Can blind people play table tennis? “Yes we can” says Brendan Wright who gradually lost his vision until becoming completely blind over 20 years ago. Brendan is a huge sports fan and a multi-sport athlete who participates whenever he can. He is an accomplished four stroke swimmer, having won numerous medals at the Special Olympics, and plays “Beep Baseball” with his blind friends in the Los Angeles area. Still not fully satisfied with those limits, he wanted to try table tennis to explore whether it might be possible to play that sport without being able to see the ball. And it’s worked! Although the rules of the game differ, Brendan is now an accomplished ping pong player. Check out the video above to see how he can do that.

Like others who live their lives with what we call a “dis-ability,” Brendan has learned to live a fruitful, active, and basically happy life without the benefit of vision. His abilities are astonishing. Compensating for the absence of sight, Brendan’s ability to feel and to understand the contours of his environment is astonishing. And his hearing capacity is so much greater than mine that you might as well call me “deaf.” He hears the world with astonishing precision and tells me what I’m missing.

Based on research over the past half century, we now realize that many animals have ways of registering the world that are very different from human ways. And in many cases, more accurately attuned, more perceptive. In other words, all living beings have “blind spots” that go along with their specific ways of encountering the world. Beyond perceptual blind spots, we all stumble through the world with a wide variety of mental blind spots, cognitive leaps and gaps that shape how we perceive and understand the world in which we live.

People who realize this—and cultivate the ability to notice—are able to recognize the strengths, weaknesses, and differences between a wide range of people.

Picture those with a poetic sense for the world, with an artistic sense, with an acute connection to the natural world, with the capacity to understand animals in some intuitive way, with a musical ear, with a natural inclination to be quiet and listen or to be articulate, vocal, and humorous, with a chef’s ability to differentiate between tastes, with a natural ability to learn many languages, and on and on and on. People live incredibly interesting lives with different kinds of perception that support very different skills, and although we label some differences as disabilities, that label often blinds us to other people’s natural gifts. When the power goes off and the city is pitch dark, Brendan can navigate his environment as though nothing has changed. When I can’t hear subtle sounds in my environment, Brendan teaches me what I’m missing.

The career that I stumbled into for very contingent reasons—a professor of Religious Studies and Asian Studies— forced me to acquire some level of sensitivity to human differences. I found myself exploring different cultures, different spiritual sensitivities, different philosophical takes on who people are or could be. Looking back, I can see how fortunate I was to spend my life learning to understand and to appreciate these differences. Other people—all of you—spend their lives with other occupations, other pursuits and as a result develop different sensitivities, different skills and ways of living. Human diversity is the engine of our collective creativity and a posture of open generosity to others is what sustains peaceful, productive living.

For all the reasons above and more, I spend considerable time and some money to help support blind athletes—men and women who participate in the Special Olympics or who play “Beep Baseball.” For anyone interested, I invite you to join me in this endeavor by making a donation to support the Beep Baseball team featured below. Although, having spent my career as a teacher there are serious limits to my capacity as a donor, I am happy to offer to match all donations up to a limit of $2000. Here is a brief video on how blind men and women play baseball and a link for donations to help this team afford to rent a field for practices, purchase equipment, and travel to Beep Baseball tournaments around the USA:

➡️ https://www.socalbeepbaseball.org/donate/

Krzysztof here: Dale, who some of you may know is the author of The Six Perfections: Buddhism and the Cultivation of Character, wrote about the cultivation of generosity as the first important step on the path of seeing beyond the limits of one’s world . It’s a bit squeamish for Dale to talk about his own writing, especially in the context of encouraging donations to his son’s Beep Baseball team. So I’m going rogue here by adding this commentary and a pithy reminder from that book: We can only give to the extent that we are truly free, and are not possessed by our possessions, or our money, or ourselves.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit firephilosophy.substack.com/subscribe

Consider supporting Fire Philosophy if our conversations with Steven Heine, Agnes Callard, Stephen Batchelor, Joanna Klink, Karen King, and now Michelle Huneven have brought value and insight into your life’s journey.

➡️ You can find Bug Hollow here.

Dale is also a huge fan of Michelle’s book Blame:

To understand the full context of the quotations below, we highly encourage you to listen to our whole conversation with Michelle Huneven in the video above.

You just have to keep going. You need to buy clothes. You need to buy a cage for your bird. You need to buy a fishbowl for the two fish you rescued from the debris soaked pond.

And I think that one of the problems is, I think the body gives you a grace period. And then when you're ready, you can start to feel stuff. And what happens is that you go to make a dish and you think, oh, I need some sumac, I've got sumac. And, no, I don't have sumac. It burnt. Or you think, oh, I had that nice little shovel. No, I don't have that shovel. It burnt.

I see a homeless man, I tear up, I see a dog with three legs I tear up. But I don't mind that; I like being so tender to the world or so raw to the world.

Their suddenly being gone and so sudden like you're the change in your life. I think that's a definition of grief. I think my experience of grief is that you have to think everything you possibly can about that person or that place before grief is done with you.

It's like grief has you by the scruff of the neck and it's you lost this, you lost that. This is gone. That's gone. And I'm not sure it ever completely, lets go. I'm still grieving people that died many years ago, 20 years ago, 30 years ago, more.

So it's not even, how do you be a good person in this world? It's how do you just live in this world? But I think that the more comfortable you are with this difficult world is how spiritual you are in a way. How do you find a way to live? And I think that every single one of my characters grapples with it.

I wondered how do you know if you're a good person or if you're claimed by darkness? And I think that's something that I've always been interested in. How do you know if you're a good person?

What I learned was that I'm full of characters. I've got a river of themes and interests and characters up there that I just need to tap in a kind of free associative way but it established that relationship that wasn't there. I went from having no ideas to having a lot of ideas.

But another huge difference that I finally came to discover is that the difference between thinking that your life is just in this channel and it's just happening and realizing that imagination can really extend those boundaries and send you off in directions that you might not otherwise have realized were possible.

It matters to you what kind of shovel you're using in the garden, and for most people, they couldn't care less. But for you, the way you do everything, what you read and eat and cook and tend your garden and take care of your chickens and travel and write, all of these are made to be beautiful, and aesthetically real in your life.

I've always seen style as the way you finess your limitations. You butt-up against your limitations, and then you have to finesse it. Look at Leonard Cohen, somebody one time said he mastered the notes of A and B, he does not have great singing range. And yet, he's a total genius. People might disagree with me, but I think that he's fantastic, but he does have limitations. And yet how he finesse them is his style, is his signature style.

And I think as a writer, you're writing always just up against your own limitations. You're writing at the edge of your vision, and you think as you get to be a better writer, that you have more access. But that just keeps going. You're always out of reach of what, at least I am, of what I can actually do.

If you believe in God, God is creating God's self. That's standard process theology in a way, I think, I really do believe that every act of living is creative and that probably results in what you’re calling style. In a funny way, I resist it because you make me sound like a yuppie who just lives the beautiful life and buys the most beautiful things.

And now that you, say it that way, I realize all of my life I've been a rebel against style, very careful not to be stylish, but that of course is a style that's very particular of somebody who's always revolting on the edges. But in Nietzsche's sense I think it means very much how you described it, and that was really wonderful.

That you are out on the edges of your limitations and you're out on the edges of your imagination. You've got these choices to make, and there they are. Why not make them? And why not carve something unique?

To make my character Sybil, the mother, a complex a character I had to eliminate a hundred other complexities in a way. I tried to fit them all in, but you really have to simplify in order to get them on the page because they contain multitudes.

I've always felt like fiction will answer those questions that you'd rather not live. For example, what happens when you live next door to a bad boyfriend that you broke up with in the worst possible way? Then you get Wuthering Heights.

I was raised on books, which is probably why I write books. My question, how do people live in this world was a question that I posed every time I opened a book. More or less unconsciously, but I was trying to figure out how to be a human being.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit firephilosophy.substack.com/subscribe

Stephen Batchelor is a writer, teacher, and former Buddhist monk known for his contemporary, secular approach to the Buddhist teachings. A longtime critic of traditional metaphysics in religion and philosophy, Batchelor reimagines Buddhism as a philosophy of life grounded in finite human lives of uncertainty and creative freedom. His widely influential books—including Buddhism Without Beliefs and The Art of Solitude—suggest contemporary ways of living grounded in personal autonomy and the acceptance of inevitable human uncertainty. In today’s conversation we explore his latest book Buddha, Socrates, and Us and how ancient wisdom from both India and Greece might open insights for our 21st century lives.

We offer the vast majority of our work on Fire Philosophy for free. If you find it of value, please share it with your friends and consider practicing the art of generosity and supporting our work with a paid subscription. 🙏

Conversation Highlights

How did the ancient Greeks address the question of suffering, which is arguably the preeminent starting point for the whole Buddhist endeavor? And yet Plato doesn't talk about suffering at all, only once I think it's mentioned.  It occurred to me then that if I had been an Indian and a student of the Buddha in the early years of his teaching, and if for some reason I then found myself all the way over in the west, in the city of Athens, how would I have understood how this community, which clearly had very deep philosophical inquiry going on, would have addressed the issue of suffering?

 So you have these two figures both alive at the same time. They clearly didn't know about each other and yet I found increasingly resonances between them. Of course this depends on how you read the Buddha… But I think my real thesis isn’t derived from a historical comparison, which is frankly, not really my forte. I'm not a historian. But really what I wanted to keep asking myself was: What do these two men who, especially the ideas they hold in common, what do they have to say to us now?

 Both Socrates and the Buddha put metaphysics to one side very clearly, although the later traditions of course, revived it all. But the fact is they quite clearly had no real time for these kind of abstract philosophical questions. They were interested exclusively in how to live well. For the Buddha this manifests most explicitly in his four tasks, the last of which is to cultivate a way of life that incorporates the totality of our humanity.  And for Socrates, his questions were primarily about what does it mean to live a good life? What does justice mean? What does courage mean? What does piety mean?

 We want things to be organized. We want certainty, we want clarity. We want reason. And anything that somehow threatens that gets marginalized and put to one side. We don't want quirky human beings. We want saints, we want quasi perfect individuals who somehow embody all the virtues that they speak of. I hope in our contemporary world, [with] our much greater focus on being somehow truthful and realistic, that we might be able to overcome that tendency.

 I think that [lack of explicit thinking about war] leaves the Buddhist community largely powerless in engaging effectively with conflicts such as those that we're experiencing in our world today. And that's troubled me to some extent. Whereas Socrates is able to uphold the same basic virtues—he's applying the same kind of rigorous critique to other forms of thinking; he's clearly a man of enormous integrity. And yet he also recognizes that he has a duty as a member of his society to defend it if it comes under threat. And Buddhists do the same, but they have no real theory or view that somehow makes that behavior in accord with the needs of the society at that time.

 Probably in both cases these men were seen as troublemakers and both died shortly after they were denounced at Democratic assemblies— the Buddha, probably a year or so after the denunciation and Socrates about a month after his trial. And that suggests to me that neither of these men were people who made other people feel comfortable. I think they were both disquieting and I think you get that very much in Buddhism: its critique of the self and its emphasis on impermanence and contingency and change. So many of those core teachings are effectively dismantling the notion that there is any hope of a kind of final certainty as to what you should do and how you should live.

 I would encourage young people to always think for themselves; to become freethinking, rational, autonomous, ethical beings. And that is the message I hope to get through in what I've written in this book. Autonomy is absolutely central. And I do think the great threat of social media is that it compromises our autonomy. We become so dazed and dazzled by these media that we really lose the capacity to really think for ourselves. Everything's moving so fast, we don't have the time to think for ourselves. And yet that I think is catastrophic. And probably that is what most young people of that age now are suffering from.

 The challenge is how do we refine our understanding in which we take account and are inspired by different traditions but are able to find a way of integrating those traditions and values in a way that is manageable and we're not just confused by the super fluidity information. And I guess that's what my work has been about. From the beginning is to try to trace a course from my very limited perspective on how that might play itself out. I see myself as a Guinea pig actually. I've let myself have the life I've had instead of chickening out and going to university and getting a degree and becoming a academic or something. No offense meant of course.

 Obviously people read the Buddha’s first discourse hundreds and hundreds of times, thousands. Everybody reads it, but nobody, I think, gets it. And that I think is where the imagination has to interrupt the purely rational investigation, which is often embedded in an interpretative scheme or an orthodoxy of some kind.

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It had been two decades since, as a college sophomore, I, Krzysztof, was in Professor Farred’s class “Richard Wright to Toni Morrison” when I came across Slavoj Žižek’s allusion to Prof. Farred’s short book:

I read it and was delighted by the way my old professor was thinking about what thinking (and living by means of thinking) means, and how to do it beyond our normal understanding of what thinking usually, unthinkingly, entails. Professor Farred writes:

“Thinking cannot be divided into ‘native’ and ‘foreign,’ indigenous or imported, proper or improper (sign and signified), Self and Other, white and black; thinking is indefatigably, resolutely, mischievously, indivisible— it leaves out nothing.”

And later:

“The joke is on the Nazi philosopher, because it is his insistence on thinking that enables the black man to rebut the white woman. Heidegger, the anti-Semite who invokes the “Senegalese negro” as a pedagogical prop, puts me, the black man from Southern Africa, in a position to counter a racist question. What could be more paradoxical than that?”

Dr. Farred was beyond generous to record a conversation with Dale and his former lowly B+ student. Here it is for your enjoyment— nay, for your encouragement to think about thinking.

Quotes from our conversation:

 It seems to me that the remarkable thing about being a teacher is that one has the opportunity to expose one student, not only to what they don't know, but what the teacher does not know.

 But what I realized in retrospect is that having written myself into a corner, I was now free to liberate myself from that corner.

 We do not know when we are thinking, so I'm not sure when I'm thinking, but I always have to guard against not thinking, which means that as a teacher, I have to be thinking as somebody who is trying to write as I do frequently on an almost daily basis, I have to be thinking about whether or not I'm thinking…  What else is there to do? Or in more explicitly philosophical terms, if I'm not thinking, how am I in the world?

Our work is not to affirm our students, our task, the responsibility imposed upon us, is that we have to allow them to come into thinking. We have to help them to come into thinking. We have to continue to think about thinking by ourselves. And most importantly, we have to ask them this question again and again: How are you to be in the world?

 Morrison, as you point out, is a truly remarkable thinker on race. But Morrison's strength, I would argue, derives from the ways in which it is never an explicit object.

 I refuse to be circumscribed in my cannons….  So I don't have to make a choice between Morrison or Baldwin on the one hand and Heidegger on the other. There is too little time to do work to be insisting on those distinctions.

 But what he wants from us is thinking is an openness toward the world. And that's why… the answers are, as you say, not calculative or prescriptive or preordained. They're unknowable in advance.

I wonder if we haven't, as a profession, lost the joy of not knowing and we're so called upon to be experts all the time, and we're so interested in being, God knows, what's this ugly term? Public. A public intellectual… How about the self, the act of self confrontation?

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Special guest, Zen scholar Steven Heine joins the Fire Philosophers Dale, Malek, and Krzysztof to explore the multifaceted genius of Bob Dylan through the lens of freedom, detachment, and artistic authenticity. You can find Professor Heine’s book about Dylan here.

Our fiery discussion is sparked by the film A Complete Unknown, delving into Dylan's remarkable ability to dance between worlds — from folk prophet to electric rebel, from Zen-like detachment to prophetic engagement, from his Jewish heritage to a universal, a-political storyteller.

Just as Dylan himself once transformed from Robert Zimmerman into the voice of a generation, our conversation reveals how his songs serve as mirrors reflecting both the times they were written in and our own inner landscapes. Throughout it all, Dylan emerges as a figure who, like Nietzsche's tightrope walker, maintains perfect balance while dancing above the abyss of conventional thinking, helping us to see the extraordinary hiding within the ordinary.

And just like one of Dylan's longer narrative songs, we reflect in our own meandering ways on personal connections to specific songs that have left indelible marks on our lives. From the surreal humor of "Highlands" to the raw emotion of "I Threw It All Away," each song discussion opens new windows into Dylan's artistic soul. If you’re curious about how Dylan's work transcends mere entertainment to become a form of American philosophy set to music — one that challenges, consoles, and occasionally confounds its listeners in equal measure— take a listen.

We’re experimenting at Fire Philosophy with a new arrangement that would establish two levels of engagement with what we’re doing.

Up until now almost all Fire Philosophy content has been offered to everyone free of charge, with a very small segment preserved for those who have voluntarily offered financial support for what we’re doing.

But going forward, we’d like to see how many of you would like to gather into a smaller online community interested in a greater level of involvement, receiving more in depth posts and more opportunity for active engagement. So, with this post today, we are reducing the subscription cost from $9 to $6 in the hopes of gathering some of you into a community of engaged participants.

While some Fire Philosophy content will still be free of charge, from now on, more of our deep posts, events and workshops, book-club offerings, interviews and conversations with poets, philosophers, Zen teachers, and scholars will be reserved for the active community who take this additional step closer to what we are doing.

We hope you enjoy this conversation!

Today, a couple of weeks after our dramatic election, Krzysztof and Dale take up the question from Sam Mowe that we addressed briefly just before the election—what are the grounds for pessimism and/or optimism in the world today and how can we navigate the cycles of intense feeling that politics engender?

We invite you to overcome the passive my-voice-doesn’t-matter-seduction and send us your thoughts, critiques, and questions on these matters!

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit firephilosophy.substack.com/subscribe