Although it shames me to confess this, confess it I will: rather than write these last few pages of my dissertation (and really, it is only a few pages), I have been engaged in a nearly non-stop Bones marathon. So many hours spent watching a hyper-rational forensic anthropologist solve murders by examining skeletal remains. (So many hours of inactivity; so many hours watching a fictional character living more intensely than I. So much shame!)
What has surprised me is the pity I feel for many of the bad guys, for the ones who didn't intend murder. The desperation they convey is understandable. That they respond by inflicting harm out of proportion to the situation is also understandable and so human. That they give reasonable-sounding arguments for their actions is both touching and horrifying; like a small child explaining that she hit her brother because he made a mean face at her doll, cause and effect, perceived harm, and the desire for something like justice (restitution and retribution do sound unfortunately similar, no?) are all clearly at play. They try to reason while under pressure and they fail utterly and tragically.
And it seems it must be so (too) easy to fail tragically. How sad it is that one can cause irreparable damage without being conscious of any desire for destruction.
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When I catch myself engaged in such reflection, I do laugh at myself. I worry that once I finish this degree, I may never be able to do philosophical work ever again. Perhaps I could worry instead that I will never let go of thinking philosophically. Perhaps, if I must worry, it would do me more good to worry that I am limiting myself to overthinking trivialities in order to avoid failures of thought about things of greater importance.
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