Repository | Book | Chapter

Once, many years ago, while driving my Harley up a rough mountain road in the wilderness of a Western state, I came to a bend in the road. As I turned up the bend I came upon a large, crudely lettered sign that said, "If you have come this far, you have gone too far." Sure enough; a few hundred yards on, in the middle of the old road, I confronted a large, raunchily dressed man—no leathered-up, bechained biker, either—with a large rifle, pointed directly at me and a look on his face like a mangy red-bone hound. With a very dry mouth and my life passing before me, I explained that I had taken the wrong road and was just looking for a place to turn around. I found it, did it, and set a new record for downhill driving. I mention this story because I was put in mind of it while reflecting on where Alberti had taken me in the last chapter: if I had come that far, perhaps I had gone too far. Moreover, the new formulation of consciousness it entailed in the face of the Classical one made me feel once again the rude and potentially violent meeting of civilization and wilderness at the bend of an old logging road. However, rather than give in to the instinct to turn around and get back on the royal road of the Classical formulation of consciousness it is worth the risk of seeing how far we have come, and whether we may have come too far.

DOI: 10.1007/978-94-015-8931-4_4

Full citation: