Of Spinoza, Hegel professed boldly, “You are either a Spinozist or not a philosopher at all” and “It is therefore worthy of note that thought must begin by placing itself at the standpoint of Spinozism; to be a follower of Spinoza is the essential commencement of all Philosophy.”
The meticulous Baruch Spinoza has always fascinated me, as much for his modest life as a lens grinder as for his unswerving commitment to philosophy as a transformation of one’s way of living. Like the Stoics, Spinoza believed that philosophy had a curative role by teaching people how to attain happiness, though he differed markedly from the Stoics in rejecting that reason could overcome emotion.
Spinoza’s influence has strayed widely beyond the realms of philosophy and political theory. Borges was deeply influenced by Spinoza’s work. He also wrote the following poem (translated by Richard Howard, César Rennert):
The Jew’s hands, translucent in the dusk,
polish the lenses time and again.
The dying afternoon is fear, is
cold, and all afternoons are the same.
The hands and the hyacinth-blue air
that whitens at the Ghetto edges
do not quite exist for this silent
man who conjures up a clear labyrinth—
undisturbed by fame, that reflection
of dreams in the dream of another
mirror, nor by maidens’ timid love.
Free of metaphor and myth, he grinds
a stubborn crystal: the infinite
map of the One who is all His stars.
At the end of the Ethics, Spinoza wrote
If the way which I have pointed out as leading to this result seems exceedingly hard, it may nevertheless be discovered. It must indeed be hard, since it is so seldom found. How would it be possible, if salvation were easy to find, and could without great labour be found, that it should be neglected by almost everybody? But all excellent things are as difficult as they are rare.
Ethics is a sublime read. I never tire of it. Still recall distinctly the first, second and third times I read it, where I was, what I worried about and thought. Not so the subsequent reads.
Yes, truly sublime. I read it, like Deleuze, as poetry as much as philosophy, not understanding everything but with those flashes of insight that accompanies truly great poetry, like Anne Carsons. In fact, I’m sure Deleuze makes a comment like that about Spinoza, must go and root it out.