My interest in Wittgenstein is in his approach to philosophy. To me, a philosopher is a kind of concept mechanic — a person who tinkers with the intellectual machinery.
The old Chevy pickup you inherited from your grandfather is apt to need not only a tune-up but an overhaul. You need to be able to tinker with the engine if you expect it to work.
But Wittgenstein would make for a remarkable character in fiction. Before World War I, he went to Skjolden, Norway, where he lived in a hutte — more of a farmhouse than a hut — above the fjord. He was working on problems in logic that would later be published as Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.
Here’s his description of his routine: “My day passes between logic, whistling, going for walks, and being depressed.”
He could whistle entire movements of symphonies and concertos. Brahms’s St. Anthony Variations was his throw-down piece.
He held the view, at least for most of his life, that sexual feelings interfered with love. But he was prone to loneliness. When he returned to Norway in the 1930s, again to work on philosophy, he found the hutte was too isolated and lonely so he lodged with Anna Rebni, a retired English teacher and farmer. It was almost as if they were husband and wife; their quarrels amused the neighbors.
Capturing Wittgenstein’s thought in clear prose is a test of a writer’s ability. But capture his character in fiction — I’d love to see that.
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