On my Sinus Infection!

I'm thinking about sickness lately, mostly because I have pus-filled snot running from my sinuses to my lunges, sticking there, and creating a rasp, which I cough into the toilet in the mornings (sometimes with a bit of blood). Yes that is grotesque, but not unwarranted. I've found those coughing fits to be some of the most vivid "moments of being" (spots of time, epiphanies...)of my life. At least this is what my memory of being an allergic, asthmatic teenager who dabbled in smoking (all sorts of things - even tried a banana once with my friend Kyron) tells me.

The thing about viruses that is so wonderful (I mean this literally, not in the shitty post-victorian sense) is that they are genealogical substances that appear transcendental (in that they don't appear), and announce themselves through bodies that aren't theirs. Their goal is to live in you long enough to replicate themselves as many times as possible and continue their existence, the end result of which steals being from others. Put succinctly, viruses are demons. I was thinking about this at 3:30 this morning as I was sucking on a cough drop that was stuck to my biteplate, which I was tonguing unconsciously to keep my mind off the spasming muscle that lies below my ribs on the right side and flexes its pain every time I breathe. This also brought on another insight: viruses not only infect the body, but they perpetuate that infection by creating an environment (a body with no sleep) that will not threaten them (no-sleep plus no-appetite equals no immune system). As you can see I'm very interested in my sickness, which actually makes it not that bad to live with.

Earlier in the year when Ignatieff was dominating the Canadian psyche I started reading his biography of Isaiah Berlin, which is very well written. He mentioned that Berlin enjoyed being a bit sick; it gave him the excuse to curl up in his bed with his limp left arm and read as much as he wanted. I can understand Berlin's mindset here, but I'm not a big fan of letting all my muscles atrophy while I live out a cerebral existence in bed. Bed sores tend to be the income of such laxity and I'm not at all excited about participating in such an economy. The bed does seem to be an interesting figure in 20th century academic life though. If one is confined to the bed then academic life becomes heroic, otherwise academics are constantly wondering if their "reading" is actually an elaborate strategy for avoiding something else.

Erb was talking about this in Augustine on Wednesday (though I think Augustine preferred the high alter over the bed...he was one of those rare men of letters who was also a man of action). Erb called this the "love-knowledge" problem. He said that love unites while knowledge divides. For instance, I know much about my sister and in that sense I feel a great deal of similarity with her, but I also know so much about her that I sense our irreconcilable differences. The more I know about our differences, the greater my alienation. On the other hand, love accepts, opens up, moves us toward the other in a way that knowledge doesn't. This is why Augustine prizes the love of wisdom over the acquisition of knowledge. He did not mean to devalue knowledge, but to subject it to love. I appreciate this critique. It speaks to the sensibility that I experience as a young academic.