Another loopy novel about philosophers from philosophy professor Iyer. What exactly is he getting at with these novels, which can be said to form a one-man genre at this point? Could all be a mere lark, poking silly fun at himself and his brethren. Could be using humor and absurdity as a serious critique of the vacuity of contemporary Western intellectual thought. Could be whichever option you please.

Again we have the philosophy professor, and students this time, vainly searching for Thought, or, since they know themselves incapable of it, for a Leader capable of Thought to which to attach themselves. And we have the insults, Iyer's greatest gift.

The philosopher looks different from other people, Wittgenstein says. The philosopher's face has secrets. Hiding places. The philosopher is incapable of a simple smile. There are no signs of philosophy in our faces, he says, looking round the class.

He knows the Cambridge student is encouraged to talk, he says. He knows the Cambridge student is to be treated as an intellectual partner, even as an intellectual equal, he says. He knows he's supposed to take heed of whatever nonsense the Cambridge student utters. He knows he's supposed to say interesting to even the most fatuous point.

He knows he's supposed to glory in the very fact that we can speak, that we say anything at all, that we've even turned up for class, he says... He watches our faces, he says. He looks for signs of understanding. But what does he see? Nothing! Nothing!

I imagine all of Iyer's real-life students getting all squirmy reading this. Is he serious? Is he having us on? You'd suspect the latter, I would think, but be unable to disprove the former to your complete satisfaction.

The insults and humor are fine, but I do find that they get stretched rather thin in an Iyer novel. For me. Something like having two minutes of interesting and exciting music bulked up with uninteresting filler to make a six minute song.

-- In-Reading Passage Noted --
The eye is only distracted by beauty. It is only deceived by beauty. Because the old alliance between beauty and goodness has long been broken, and the treaty between beauty and truth was torn up some time ago. ( )

This is a strange little book, elliptical, sometimes funny, often baffling in that I'm not sure how I'm to receive all the philosophy in it. I'm as clueless as the undergrads, and I'm not sure whether that's part of the point (I sort of think it is) or whether I'm just stupid. Whatever the case, I enjoyed the way the thing was put together and thought there was a lot to like here. I imagine it'd be infuriating to anyone wanting a more conventional sort of story (though it's really not all that terribly unconventional). ( )

I keep thinking of this book as an anti-Dead-Poet-Society. Iyer does manage to capture the feeling of being a college student--the book made me a bit nostalgic--but the book is so slight and cryptic that I didn't really see the point of it.

Someone else posted that they thought the book was best appreciated when read in one sitting and I definitely think that is true (and it's short enough that you can probably manage it on a weekend afternoon). I had to pick it up and put it down over the course of a couple of days, and probably enjoyed it the less for it. ( )

I keep thinking of this book as an anti-Dead-Poet-Society. Iyer does manage to capture the feeling of being a college student--the book made me a bit nostalgic--but the book is so slight and cryptic that I didn't really see the point of it.

Someone else posted that they thought the book was best appreciated when read in one sitting and I definitely think that is true (and it's short enough that you can probably manage it on a weekend afternoon). I had to pick it up and put it down over the course of a couple of days, and probably enjoyed it the less for it. ( )

I am, perhaps, giving the book slightly higher marks than it deserves – but that is because I cannot help but like the idea of putting serious philosophical questions out there in such a way as makes the reader engage. I engaged with these ideas in this book and enjoyed doing so. And I enjoyed the depiction of these young men at such an august institution, one that is and forever will be bigger than any of them, still fighting to understand the ridiculous things about the world even as they are told that they probably won’t. Or can’t. Or shouldn’t. But we ridiculous young men (and the commensurate young women) won’t ever stop coming. It’s just a shame that Iyer’s novel didn’t stop a little short of where it does. Philosophy should be pure, not sullied by unexpected romance or “plot” – but, then, this is a novel, not a philosophy text.

More at RB: http://ragingbiblioholism.com/2015/01/20/wittgenstein-jr/
or at TNBBC: http://thenextbestbookblog.blogspot.com/2015/01/drew-reviews-wittgenstein-jr.htm... ( )