My date with the pig that wants to be eaten

The Pig that Wants to be Eaten by Julian Baggini, that is. It's quite a good introductory book on philosophy through the use of 100 thought experiments. Thought experiences are basically hypothetical situations in which philosophers/writers try to draw your attention to the core moral problem they are concerned with while eliminating all other variables. Just think of it as an outlandish exaggeration of ceteris paribus. Sometimes the realist in me goes "But this doesn't occur in reality what! Oh wait... it's a thought experiment."

I spent the whole night thinking of possible topics for Independent Study (IS) and I'm nowhere close to my decision. Great. Still, I've learnt much.

My personal favourite thought experiment has links to Book 1 of A Treatise of Human Understanding by Scottish Philosopher David Hume- 'The elusive I' which claims that there is no self apart from our experiences, debunking the concept of liberal humanism.

Below are my notes copied from the book:

We are unable to detach ourselves from our experiences. The I is nothing. Like a landscape being painted, we see the point of view, but the POV itself is not revealed in the painting. The self is nothing but a sum of experiences. The self is not a thing and it is certainly not knowable to itself. We have no awareness of what we are, only an awareness of what we experience. That doesn’t mean we don’t exist. It means we lack a constant core of being, a single self that endures over time, which we so often assume, wrongly, makes us the individuals we are.

Food for thought, that's why I like it.

I like to see myself as a knowledge fairy of sorts. If you leave this blog having learnt something, that makes me really glad. It's the reason why I interject weird trivia facts in the middle of conversations. Did you know... (insert yadda yadda yadda). Responses vary across a spectrum of blank stoned faces, fleeting vaguely interested faces, and those that draw your attention to the eyes immediately because so much curiosity is contained in those black wells. No points for guessing which category my close friends belong to.

This is one of the few times I actually disagree with the critical acclaim a book is receiving.

Before I branch into my seemingly interminable ramble, do take a look at the synopsis if you don't want me to come of sounding incoherent.

One has to credit Bernhard Schlink on his ability to branch out of the typical genre of the occurrences during the Holocaust to attempts in identifying the implications. It is hard to shove the blame of atrocities committed in Holocaust onto a particular person, which was what happened to Hanna in this story. Similarly, one has to reflect whether many had a part to play in such injustice or simply attribute it to the work of a cruel man-Hitler. Despite the good intentions, the premise for the sex scenes between Hanna and Michael are completely lost on me. Some may say they aid in creating the tension in the courtroom as we see later. In any case, other than describing the imagined nudity when her back was faced to him, I see no value whatsoever. Surely the writer could have used another relationship struggle to produce the apathetic nature of the protagonist in the later parts of the book. I can only speculate that Schlink did so to create the innermost attachment between Hanna and Michael such that reconciliation proves to be harder.

Schlink usually writes the detective novels which explains the cold treatment of the structure of the sentences. “The next day, she was dead” does make economic sense in heightening curiosity and prodding the reader to read on (This critic professes to have fallen prey). However, multiply such similar sentences for the opening of many chapters and it does get stale.

Admittedly, the cold treatment becomes a thin layer of vapour imposed on the unfolding courtroom scenes such that we feel the very coldness that Hanna is going through against unfeeling judges. However, this humble critic believes that such a potentially poignant plot deserves to be less devoid of emotions. The protagonist in the book almost recites his emotions but as with all translated books, perhaps we could blame this on the loss in translation as well.

Schlink poses us the questions that we seek to find in the book and it becomes almost exasperating especially if there are running questions that only vaguely resemble Michael’s thought processes.

Advice if you still want to read it and apologies to those who intended to read it and was put off by this review:

Do not read this book on the go. I think it is the type of book which one has to savour and have the luxury of time to ponder on. Perhaps the recognition of it came from the chords it struck in the Germans. Think.