I Don’t Particularly Care about the Enlightenment


Alright, I’m sure I should. The evolution of modern thought should be of great importance to me, a writer, and therefore part of the swinging pendulum of popular opinion.

But on a night before so much is due, waiting for my sleep aids to kick in a realizing that they aren’t, and looking at the mountain of material that I hardly know but should know by heart after 5+ hours of studying over the last few days…I really don’t want to have to care about the Enlightenment, or its not-so-enlightened authors.

And then I remember that every test, be it academic or spiritual, is given to me for a reason. There is a reason—nothing is pointless, no matter what those pre-postmodernists of the Renaissance era may have thought (coughCervantescough). No. I am not incredulous towards metanarrative. I believe that I am part of a Grand Story, and my life, with all its ups and downs and hecticness, is an important part of the plot. I am supposed to learn something from every “why me” situation.

I may not be able to tell you the central theme of Montaigne’s essay on cannibals, but I can tell you that.


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