Deep and shallow

A deepity, as Daniel Dennett defined it, is a profound-seeming triviality that may in fact be devoid of meaning. Non-philosophers expect philosophers to deliver deep thoughts on command, much as non-comics expect comedians to make them laugh at will. It's not that easy. But it's much easier to be profound in writing than in casual conversation, since that's the implicit bargain writers and readers strike with one another. 

So says Agnes Callard, and I'm inclined to agree. Plenty of writers (whether they call themselves philosophers or not) are capable of writing sentences and paragraphs and sometimes whole essays or books that strike readers as deep. The same writers, encountered conversationally, are equally capable of presenting themselves in person as consistently banal and shallow. That's not surprising, and it shouldn't be disappointing. Good conversation is a prolonged series of volleys that clear the net. Profundities tend to stop play, like a blazing unreturnable serve. We should want our philosophers to be sustained conversationalists when we speak with them, and aces when they write. 

Socrates didn't write, so who knows how profound he really was? Maybe he had a lot to be humble about. 

...Recently, a New Yorker profile of me by Rachel Aviv drew more on her conversations with me than on my written work. While many readers said they loved the profile’s intimacy and directness, those same features seemed to outrage others—although the critics were split on the question of what exactly was wrong with the profile, and with me. Some were struck by how ordinary and boring I sounded—Steven Pinker reported finding it “disappointing” to learn how “shallow” I was, and Joyce Carol Oates called my concerns “banal-stereotypical”—whereas others found me strange: a “weirdo,” a “freak,” a “monster.” The two sides of the opposition couldn’t come together on whether I was “embarrassingly familiar”or bizarrely unrelatable, but one thing they did agree on, and complain about, was that I had failed to come across as someone possessed of great profundity. And they’re right: Deep down, I am not deep.

What is profundity? The first thing to note is that it belongs more to writing than to speech. Imagine that you and I are talking, engaged in a rapid and animated back-and-forth, and all of a sudden, I say something incredibly, unbelievably profound. What do you do? No response can possibly count as an adequate rejoinder to the bottomless well of insight I’ve just placed between us. Maybe you catch your breath in awe. Maybe you just say, “Wow, that was so profound.” Eventually, after a long pause, we move on, and maybe change the topic...

 Profundity should be the residue of deep post-conversational reflection. When we converse, we just want to keep the ball above the net and in motion. A good philosopher knows when to wade in and when to hang back in the shallows.

But that doesn't mean philosophers who occasionally pen a profound statement or two (or many) aren't also still capable of screwing up their personal lives in ways that might strike some as indicating shallowness. Socrates was mortal and fallible, so are we all.

But philosophers should still have some "sayings" on tap. My favorites are in Latin. Solvitur ambulando. Sapere Aude. Carpe Diem. Errare Humanum Est. Like that.