The Thinker 105
being mistaken for somebody else and may securely speak to anyone:
such is our desert, and believe me, it is lonely enough” (244).
Nietz sche broods on his idol Schopenhauer with his massive cup
of morning coff ee, black as onyx; his four hours of writing; his lunch-
time meal with friends at the club; his after noon spent in the li-
brary; his ferocious walks, four miles, fi ve, six; his slight supper,
then an eve ning of opera, light opera if possi ble, to clear his head
for tomorrow’s work. This the great thinker does every day, living
in an out- of- the- way town, consorting with people of no great in-
terest or understanding, putting all his energy into work that might
live for all time. When Schopenhauer learns that his long- ignored
writing is being read and debated by the fi nest minds among the
young in, of all places, England, he comes close to tears and says
with great relish and even greater relief, “I am read! I am read and I
shall be read!”
Nietz sche thinks also of Kant, the celestial virgin of idealist phi-
losophy, walking his customary walk (you could set your clock to
his perambulations), his rooms crammed with books, his unmar-
ried state, his perfect devotion to the phi los o pher’s art. In his later
years, when his major work was done, Kant allowed himself an
indulgence. This was his coff ee. “Land,” he would cry out, at the
appointed time of day as his man brought the steaming pot to him.
“I think that I see land.” The old thinker had seen the full contents
of his mind achieve form and expression. He had discovered and
articulated new worlds. He’d done his work. Land, I think that I see
land.
Of all the dangers that menace the au then tic thinker on his path
to the Truth, one of the most formidable is books. (The reckless love
of reading is perhaps not quite comparable in strength to the love
of fame, which Milton called “the last infi rmity of noble mind,” but
its power is beyond doubt.) One can sense the true thinker almost