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A Million Saint & A Melancholic Philosopher

Today, in the journey of hope and despair my cogito (Rene Descartes) stays a few minutes with Ludwig Wittgenstein. An Austrian genius who once asked Butrand Russell, "Do you think I am a complete idiot. If I'm, I would become an astronaut, if not, I would be a philosopher"? Why am I interested in a person who lived in here almost 70-100 years ago? Can't I find one who leaves his millionaire father's business to join a  school to teach and to meditate about the meaning, if it exists, of life and death? Can't I find, in contemporary time, a linguist philosopher for whom "Problems" are the life what it means to be, otherwise a "problemless" world would be a nihilistically paranoid situation? Perhaps I can find a million saints who has a trillion way to deceive the truth, but not a one melancholic philosopher who is interested in forgetfulness, to sense the world outside it's meaning, outside the structure of language, in silence, in void. He says, "Something can be explained, can be explained clearly, if not, no word can explain it" (Wittgenstein). We humans are proud of our scientific leap, but never pay heed to the very limitations in which Science as a discipline functions, it is structured in the semiosis; a grammar of logocentrism runs like a common thread to make possible the very possibility of science. In a way, "my world is what the world of a language is, and  limitations what a language has" (Wittgenstein), in which my psyche functions like a mystic pad (Siegmund Freud). Had Wittgenstein born in India in 90, perhaps he would have chosen a life of UPSC aspirant, for whom only Mukherjee Nagar would have the last place to refuge and survival! Why am I making this strange statement? Am I outside the domain of Cultural structure shaped like Derridean "Arche Writing", or Gramscean "Trace", evolved through meaning-making logocentric language? No! I'm writing this post in the very structure which makes me what it means to be Mritunjay actually!

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