Karlsruhe, 17 December 2012

KLEIN: Mr Sloterdijk, after extensive research I have compiled a selection of your interviews over the past two decades, a very compact selection from an enormous wealth of material, but still a weighty volume. I am aware that interviews are only a small part of your publishing activity – the phrase ‘tip of the iceberg’ is very apt here. You have more than forty books to your name, and have also written a large number of essays for a wide range of newspapers, periodicals and anthologies. You have held professorships in Karlsruhe and Vienna for the past twenty years, and you only resigned from the position in Austria quite recently. Aside from this you have had a full timetable as a speaker at all kinds of events, and you have participated in numerous conferences, conventions and symposia. You have given readings from your latest books, and held seminars, ceremonial addresses and after-dinner speeches. You have done interviews in many media and for over ten years you moderated your own TV programme.

According to the general wisdom, ‘less is more’. Why, in your case, is more more? Does your almost frantic creative energy express something of the powerlessness every writer feels when faced with the silence of the library?

SLOTERDIJK: I think the real answer to the question of the main impetus for my work is connected more to an inner state rather than an actual motive. Looking back over the years these interviews cover, my first impression of myself is defencelessness, or the ability to be enticed. The cliché of the born writer’s endogenous, ebullient productivity certainly doesn’t apply to me, and nor does the model of committed literature. What people see as productivity in my case is usually only my inability to defend myself against suggestions from other people. It starts from a degree of over-compliance. This is ultimately responsible for the constant transition from passivity to production. But this state would not be sustainable without some cockiness. If I took on an additional task, it meant I was prepared to say I could manage that. In the process I sometimes got exhausted, of course, but that was superseded by an incredibly reckless trust in my powers of regeneration. That, incidentally, is the only difference worth mentioning between my earlier life and the present: for a while now, I have noticed that regeneration demands its own time.

KLEIN: Take us into your creative workshop. Can you describe your working technique and explain how you organize your library? How do you remember things?

SLOTERDIJK: Nobody can really know how his memory works. I only know I must have a well-organized internal archive even if it might seem chaotic to other people. My inner archivist finds access to the important files fairly regularly. He is one collaborator who has never disappointed me. He fortuitously retrieves documents I didn’t even know had been filed ready for reference. Sometimes he unwittingly discovers nearly finished pieces of writing that I only have to copy up.

KLEIN: To what extent does your relation to language enhance your zest for writing and publishing?

SLOTERDIJK: Language is generally seen as a medium for understanding – an assumption that writers shouldn’t accept unquestioningly. A critical minority sees language as the starting point of all misunderstandings. Wittgenstein even thought that philosophical problems arose when language goes on holiday – although he didn’t reveal to us what he meant by ‘going on holiday’. Does it mean being nonsensical? Or poring over pseudo-problems, firing excessive volleys into the air? Anyway, he toyed with the idea that one could just as well do without language; the deflationary tendency is clearly evident. Reading that, I can imagine a wrinkled janitor entering the scene who wants to put an end to the silliness of youth. Statements like that seem narrow to me. You really don’t know what might happen if you get involved in going on holiday. I prefer the opinion of Wittgenstein’s fellow Austrian, Egon Friedell, who said: ‘Culture is a wealth of problems.’ We can try to economise on everything, but not on problems.

KLEIN: So far I have managed to trace around 300 of your interviews in various newspaper archives and on the Internet. Staying with the iceberg image, if we present over thirty selected pieces in this book, this is indeed only the part of the iceberg visible above water. What role do the interviews play in your work as a writer and media personality? Are they there to promote the ‘management of your own name’, as you yourself once expressed it?

SLOTERDIJK: You know, some highly reputable authors never gave interviews, and some did so only rarely. But there are others who accept interview proposals easily. I count myself among the latter. It involves brand-name management, and that is an offshoot one accepts. With most interviews the reader will notice that even if I thought about that aspect beforehand, I forgot it after a minute at most. The interview is one form of literary production among others, and I see it as a subgenus of the essay. I have practised it frequently since the time I overcame my reluctance and accepted the role of public intellectual that ensued from my first publications. As you can see, I enjoy formulating things and making propositions, and once I am immersed in the flow of speech I stop worrying about the effect. My worries only become acute in the reworking phase. I’m sensitive about failed expressions.

KLEIN: True, your interviews are not one-to-one live publications. You always check them over.

SLOTERDIJK: Let’s say they are a mixed form composed of improvisation and edited work. In some cases the editing is limited to just one or two slight touches, but others involve a completely new version.

KLEIN: Over the years, the young, shy Sloterdijk we see in old videotapes has become a star. To me he is like a colossus of expressive force, verbally and in writing. This creative energy, it seems to me, can’t be explained by normal standards. It is still a mystery how you have managed this.

SLOTERDIJK: I admit that I have felt many things blowing through me. Now and then I enjoy the powerful cross-draughts, but by no means always. My basic feeling, as I have said, is not of excessive productivity but of receptiveness to evidence from all directions, what I just called defencelessness. In the early stage I usually like the things I am doing, but I quickly lose sight of them. It might sound odd, but if a major work is in the making I only have brief feelings of achievement, and they only happen rarely. I am incapable of developing such emotions, or of holding on to them. I am always faced with the blank sheet of paper that shows I haven’t done anything yet. So I put out my feelers and start from scratch. It may sound absurd, but I usually suspect myself of not doing enough. This probably shows I am lacking in hindsight intelligence. As I don’t see my past, I have no choice but to keep moving. Maybe that would be the next lesson: slowing down and returning to the moment. But I’m still wary of such suggestions and dismiss them scornfully as ideas for retired folk.

KLEIN: I have heard you shared a communal apartment when you were younger. How did you manage to be creative in the midst of the chaos? Many people would say in that kind of environment they could never put anything down on paper.

SLOTERDIJK: I didn’t actually live in that apartment in Munich but I visited it every day. What I noticed about myself then was the ability not to let anything put me off course. I always had intense relationships, I had close ties to women and male friends, and we went out a lot and travelled frequently. For the past twenty years the family has been my main form of life, and that’s not pure solitude either. I can well remember the time when a boisterous toddler ran around my study. It was entertaining for me – I couldn’t be disturbed. Today I find it odd that I get irritated more easily. In the past the telephone didn’t disturb me, nor did workmen or Jehovah’s Witnesses. I saw everything as inspiration, not interruption. A miraculous superstition was at work: whatever happened would immediately be transformed into part of the production. In that middle phase I seemed to be living in a protective shell; I was sure of my own topics, or the topics were sure of me. Nothing could distract me.

KLEIN: When you say ‘defencelessness’, it suggests being tired and giving up. Evidently you have constantly used the creativity of writing to banish this eventuality.

SLOTERDIJK: Old working animals know that even tiredness can become a motive force if it activates regeneration. Once you have really rested, let’s say for a whole day, it feels as if you have gained the energy for three new lives. In the past I used to emphasize the difference between regeneration and a vacation. I saw the latter as illegitimate and thought it had no reason to exist. To put it arrogantly, I used to think you only need a vacation from the wrong life. Today I have changed my mind. Gradually I am coming round to admitting that vacations are justified.

KLEIN: Let me return to your interviews again. At the moment, Suhrkamp Verlag, which has been your publishing house since your first book thirty years ago, is in the headlines.² There was a time at Suhrkamp when its authors were horrified at the idea of publishing anything in a Springer Press newspaper. Now, however, you publish in practically every medium that asks you, almost at random it seems, and you even published something once in Bild-Zeitung and Playboy. How do you judge yourself in this context? How has the Suhrkamp author changed over the years since the time it was unthinkable to give interviews to Springer Press newspapers?

SLOTERDIJK: One thing is clear: the typical Suhrkamp author no longer exists, if he or she ever did. Actually, the publishing house used to be the imprint for a collection of highly idiosyncratic characters. What do you suppose Bloch and Beckett had in common? Or Hesse and Luhmann? By now the diversity has increased, if anything. Some Suhrkamp authors have retained the spirit of the sixties or seventies and represent softer versions of latter-day Marxism. You can see they are children of the zeitgeist as well because, almost unnoticed, they have changed their topic from utopia to justice – this is where the remnants of the Frankfurt School of civil theology live on. On the other hand, many new shades of personality have emerged in the spectrum, both at the literary and the scholarly ends.

The success of my book in 1983 was a signal for me to look at future fields of action elsewhere. Why not in the previously unthinkable media? Over time I have increasingly discarded inherited aversions. I have met with interview partners from the most politically heterogeneous media without having a hidden agenda of ideological criticism, and, wherever possible, on an equal footing. The only exception is the press of the neo-nationalist strand – in that case my personal background had an influence. Perhaps I should have cast off this inhibition as well, and made occasional home visits to confused extreme right-wing souls.

KLEIN: Many of the interviews in the present volume relate to your new publications at the time, while others take their cue from topics in the air at that particular juncture. Do you remember interviews that especially influenced you?

SLOTERDIJK: Most of the conversations and interviews in the present book happened so long ago that I can’t remember the situations they occurred in or, at best, only vaguely. I still have a vivid memory of the circumstances of the wide-ranging two-part interview with Ulrich Raulff, the director of the German Literature Archive. The theme was ‘Fate’, and it took place about two years ago, the first part in Karlsruhe and the second in Marbach, where Raulff sat opposite me as the host and guardian of his treasures. Those were moments of pure intellectual happiness. At such points one realizes more keenly than usual what literature can be, including in the form of the spoken word. It is a syntactic technique of happiness. The levitation begins with combining two or three words in a non-prosaic fashion.

KLEIN: The present volume is an anthology of trenchant formulations. We get the impression that, for you, dialogue is always a metalogue as well. Many voices come and go in it. The interviews take the form of conversations between two people, but it seems to me you would be most comfortable in conversation with several partners.

SLOTERDIJK: True, I experience dialogue as a polylogue, a conversation with many people. After all, aside from their own voice, good interviewers usually bring all kinds of other voices with them. They are already a chorus of subjectivity themselves. This inevitably creates echoes in the interviewee. If there is anything I really don’t like, it is an exchange of empty phrases that sound like official pronouncements.

KLEIN: We can guarantee there are no empty phrases to be found anywhere in this book.

SLOTERDIJK: Let me explain where my aversion to empty phrases comes from. For as long as I can remember, I have had a childish fear of boredom. I have always thought the most boring things possible are the kind of set speeches you hear in the academic discourse market, not to mention the chipboard sheets from the political DIY store. To avoid misunderstandings, I should say I know a good kind of boredom that is calming and integrating. You can entrust yourself to it like to an old nursery school teacher. I am thinking of the subtle boredom of a landscape, the liberating boredom of the sea, the lofty boredom of the mountains and the boredom of great narrative literature when it sometimes demands patience. An evil boredom emanates from the intrusive bigotry of conceited empty phrasemongers – it is just as deadly as it is reputed to be. Do you know this kind of situation? You exchange a few words with somebody whom you may not even dislike a priori. After three or four sentences back and forth you feel incredibly world-weary. It is as if your vitality battery has been used up within seconds and you don’t know why. I avoid that sort of boredom like the plague. It is a pathological condition that takes away your pleasure in speaking, in expressing opinions, in being able to say what you see, indeed, in life itself. The symptom of severe boredom is speech breakdown. All at once the words refuse to come out in the right order, you barely manage to squeeze out a noun but the verb doesn’t follow, there is an overwhelming, awful feeling of not wanting to say anything else – which should definitely not be confused with the good state of just having nothing to say. Sometimes I almost hit the danger point when I notice a conversation partner is digging up totally hackneyed questions, questions that are essentially ways of dumbing down. They always have the subtext: come and share our misery! I have made a great effort to learn to evade such attacks by reformulating the questions until I regain the desire to react to them.

KLEIN: Do you mean there are questions like vampires that suck the life out of the respondent?

SLOTERDIJK: There are questions like that and questioners like that. In theosophical circles such negatively charged people are called prana suckers, vampires of life’s breath. Sometimes the questioner’s mental exhaustion is clear from the start. In the best case I try to answer like a tour director or an emergency doctor.

KLEIN: I am absolutely sure there are no interviews in the present book in which you had to play the role of emergency doctor, and nobody who reads these pieces would think of speech breakdown. But I wonder whether we can sense a kind of respect, not to say awe, in your interview partners now and then.

SLOTERDIJK: If it were ever the case, it would have been wrong to leave it like that. Interviews in public are a form of sport in which the point is not to win, but to play for a draw on a higher plane. In every sophisticated question–answer flow the discussion partners remind each other of their more intelligent options. One discovers the pleasure of being able to navigate in a problem space.

KLEIN: I’d like to refer again to the enthusiasm that’s often discernible in what you say, whether we call it youthful or not. Your drive for expression started exploding after your India trip in early 1980. Could it be that, after India, you experienced a quasi-archaic pre-lingual enthusiasm that converged with later academic influences? You have probably often been asked this question. I am fascinated that, from then on, there seemed to be no way back for you. Suddenly the only open road led towards productivity.

SLOTERDIJK: It would be better to say, the road to practical testing of a presentiment. I was latently aware that I was living on the quiet. After 1980, the time was ripe for me to start striking out. Back then I found the right note for myself, if one can put it so naively. It was as if I had discovered the instrument for making my kind of music. The instrument was tuned at the moment I realized what my opportunity consisted in.

KLEIN: Naturally, we’d like you to explain that in more detail.

SLOTERDIJK: Let me try. I was born in 1947 and as a young man I grew up almost without any paternal influence. At the right moment I realized I should decide to be a sort of father to myself. I already had a good idea of what mothering is, whether pre-existing or chosen, and how one gradually leaves it behind. I had no idea what fathering meant. I had to find my fathers and mentors, which meant I had to look in the world around me. Fathers are models we seek to have something to conquer later on, aren’t they? So I set off, with admiration as my guideline. Nobody who had something to say was safe from my admiration – or from my disappointment either. The breakthrough came when I understood that I had to explain the world to myself. In my case it could only happen by taking myself in hand – as teacher and student in one. Somehow I managed to duplicate myself into a bigger and a smaller part. So I took myself by the hand and explained the world and life to myself. Evidently this made sense to many observers who enjoyed reading what I said to myself. They probably laughed at how I slipped into the role of the wise old man for the sake of the junior. I still think this method wasn’t the worst way to approach the philosophical sphere. It was particularly useful in my case because it fitted the situation of a young person who, like many of his generation, grew up with a strong sense of cultural insecurity.

KLEIN: What made you go East after you finished your dissertation under the professors in Hamburg? What did you learn from the Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, or Osho, as he was also known? Why did you go to India at that time instead of staying at the university?

SLOTERDIJK: That is a long story I can only sketch briefly here. In 1974 I was offered a post as a temporary assistant professor at Hamburg University. I accepted, and moved to Hamburg. The following year in Hamburg was a very fruitful time for me, a watershed in my life. I was very lucky to become a close associate of Klaus Briegleb, the tenured professor for modern German literature. I knew him from Munich and in my opinion, and not only mine, he was the foremost literary scholar in the country and at the peak of his art in his years in Hamburg. The constellation with my older colleagues was equally auspicious, an intellectual spiral nebula with enormous energy. It was also interesting in terms of group eroticism. As regards the university, from then on I knew it was not my kind of patch. I went back to Munich when my contract expired. Then the wild years of groups began: communes, psychotherapy, meditation groups, the New Left, the New Man. Topics like that were constantly bandied about. Back then, we believed in theory as if it had messianic power. The period between 1974 and 1980 was the experimental phase of my life. I had written my doctoral dissertation, I had many options open to me, and the only thing I knew clearly was that I wouldn’t go back to the university. If there is such a thing as suffering from doubt, I wasn’t aware of it then. I felt inspired by having the freedom of several years ahead to find my feet without having to commit myself.

KLEIN: But that still doesn’t explain why you decided to go to India.

SLOTERDIJK: The Indian trip had been a preordained choice in the spiritual curriculum of the West since the days of the blessed Hermann Hesse. You might have read Marx, Lenin and Marcuse, but the Orient was still missing. One day the time was ripe. It embodied everything that mattered back then, the therapeutic awakening, the spiritual awakening and the countercultural awakening. What is more, the whole enterprise was headlined by the topic of the day, ‘free love’, like a neon sign on Times Square. You would have had to be an idiot not to give it a try. Anyway, in India you met half of Frankfurt and half of Munich. I experienced my best Adorno colloquia on the fringes of the ashram in Poona. This was the start of an incredibly intensive period, because in India you just met people who were brave in their own fashion, aggressive, confrontational, and generous with feelings, observations and touching. The mood there today is largely defined by the need for safeguards, which was unknown back then. Of course, everybody was crazy at that time; you realize it when you look back soberly, but you have to admit they were brave to the point of excess. To go to India under the conditions at that time was really a big leap, a breach with the culture we came from.

KLEIN: Replaying old videos in which the eyes of Osho are looking at us, we can still feel the pulse of a dimension beyond European academia. How did this guru come to play such a major role at that time?

SLOTERDIJK: Nowadays he doesn’t mean anything to me any more, aside from a rather remote feeling of gratitude. Remember, I was one of the people who returned from the East intending to stay here. I had changed, for sure, but I hadn’t become Indianized. On the contrary, it was only since then that I consciously became a European. I have built the impulses from there discreetly into my life. They are only present now in an altered form, as elements of gentle vibrations.

KLEIN: Have you lived ‘under a brighter sky’ since then?

SLOTERDIJK: That’s how I once expressed it. After I came back from India I developed my own private meteorology. I no longer felt personally affected by the weather forecast for Central Europe.

KLEIN: Can you explain how we get to the brighter sky in our region? Are there directions for people beset by crises and looking for inner strength?

SLOTERDIJK: I don’t want to embark on a discursive essay about the interconnection of individual and society, but it should be clear that the brightening up of feeling for the world is linked to a change in the mode of socialization. At the end of the Second World War, Arthur Koestler wrote a lucid essay, ‘The Yogi and the Commissar’, in which he typologically contrasted the two fundamental responses of the twentieth century to the misery of the world, the response of the yogi, who chooses the path inwards without asking about external conditions, and the response of the commissar who never tires of repeating the thesis that the social structures first have to be completely changed before we can think about emancipation of individuals. Towards the end of the 1970s the social revolutionary illusions of the decade collapsed, leaving a gap that offered fresh scope for the yogi option.

Most people don’t remember that today. At the moment we are going through an era of commissars again, even if they are no longer the type of communist Koestler had in mind. Today’s protagonists of social democracy are convinced that expanding the authority of the state is the cure for all of life’s evils. The absolutism of the social sphere is seeping into the smallest cracks once again. The commissar’s approach is not compatible with the classical Indian conception of the world. People in India tend to think that while each individual carries the potential for a revolution within himself or herself, it is a revolution in the first person. I returned from India to Europe with this lesson in my baggage without paying duty on it, and I have never completely renounced it. The ensuing conflict with the commissars was predictable. Overall, this happened in a rather weird way, perhaps partly because I didn’t take the floor as a phenotypic yogi, turned away from the world, idealistic and esoteric, but as a person very much of this world yet with a different concept of the world. This contradiction has hung in the air, more or less unexplained, for around thirty years. Now and then, new commissars ganged up against some of my interventions – think of the strange failed debate two years ago about democratically redefining taxation in the spirit of giving. One way or another, that was an odd scene. A grand coalition of commissars bludgeoned an idea that obviously came from the yogi region. People still don’t understand that there is more than one kind of progress, more than one revolution, more than one anthropology.

KLEIN: How does it affect you as a person when, aside from criticism, you also get a great deal of admiration? How do you cope with all the projections of your readers and fans?

SLOTERDIJK: Now I’m going to say something very odd: I often don’t feel appreciation from outside. When it comes to applause, I’m afraid I am mentally blind. It hasn’t escaped me that some readers value my work, just as it hasn’t escaped me that attempts have been made to devalue it. I haven’t been deaf to the applause but it doesn’t distract me, and individual readers’ opinions have only rarely touched me deeply.

KLEIN: That sounds very paradoxical. After all, at the same time you claim to react very sensitively to external stimuli.

SLOTERDIJK: Maybe I should explain that in more detail. I am talking about the public impact of books. You see, before a new work leaves my workshop I first have to accept it myself. At that moment I am my own audience, and I want to be convinced as such. My approval is not given for nothing. At the moment I hand over a piece of work I must have an idea of its place on the scale of values. If the author doesn’t know that, who should? I don’t believe in the cliché of the writer who produces work automatically or while sleepwalking, who creates works at his desk like a pure fool and only knows they are worth something when others react excitedly. Many artists nowadays adopt the camouflage of ‘I don’t know’ games, acting as if the sophisticated public alone can pass judgement on a work of art. I think the self-evaluation of any author worthy of the name is usually just as accurate as the readers’ verdict, and often better. Maybe a certain percentage should be deducted for the usual self-overestimation and then we would get a realistic value.

KLEIN: In other words, in cases where the inner power of judgement is sufficiently well developed, excessive self-overestimation wouldn’t occur at all. Then one would not be overly surprised by other people’s common judgement. But the ability to see beyond the narrow confines of one’s own work seems to be an art not everybody is endowed with.

SLOTERDIJK: Let’s say that publication means deciding whether something you have written passes the test. It presupposes an internal verdict about whether a construction has made the grade. You don’t make a decision like that because you are so blindly narcissistic as to think everything of yours is magnificent. On the contrary, you are more likely to feel intense self-doubt. Only a little is allowed to pass through the barrier. If you conclude the work can remain as it is, the pre-censorship is complete. That doesn’t exclude other people with other standards making other judgements. The author is only the person who says ‘finished’. Anything else can be done by other people as well, but the author is the one who breaks off the work on a thing. An intimate sense of evidentness decides when the time is right.

KLEIN: Your fans and critics agree that your style is baroque and not infrequently brilliant. How far does clarity play a role in your conception of philosophical prose?

SLOTERDIJK: My judgement on this is biased. I believe my own writings are completely clear. I often work with abbreviations and exaggerations or, technically speaking, ellipses and hyperbole, two stylistic methods that are indisputably useful for working out ideas. Some colleagues accuse me of sprinkling metaphors too liberally, but I always respond that concepts and metaphors are not necessarily opposed, and metaphors often represent a higher state of concepts. There are, of course, theoreticians who were socialized in a different culture of rationality and have difficulty understanding associative language. They are accustomed to discussing whether a statement such as ‘All bachelors are unmarried men’ should be regarded as an analytical judgement. They are suspicious of my hopping and jumping and are inclined to cry ‘thought poetry!’ or ‘metaphor-spouting!’

KLEIN: Do you mean ‘live’ thinking should rate higher than edited thinking because it is more difficult?

SLOTERDIJK: It is not necessarily more difficult, but rarer. ‘Live’ is a term from broadcasting technology that allows us to participate in events elsewhere. In general, we are not present when thinking is happening somewhere. And it is usually a long time since thought took place. With luck, it is recorded in writing and we can read it later.

KLEIN: The idea of reading something later raises an important question for me. I have the impression that some time ago you began the phase of reappraisal of your work as a whole, still hesitatingly, but we can recognize the beginnings. The section of your oeuvre published in book form so far represents less than half of your works. The present interview collection provides an initial, extremely selective indication of what you have produced along the way in the everyday business of Zeitkritik, critique of our times. In relation to the lectures and essays you have produced in the past twenty-five years, as far as I know there is no plan for a collected edition, which would involve a series of big volumes. From what I can see, the majority of your unknown works consists of your academic lectures, and only those who attended have an idea of them. Great treasures of live thinking are probably buried among them. What are you going to do with them?

SLOTERDIJK: For twenty years I gave lectures at the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna on many topics without repeating them. The audiotapes of those lectures must be lying around in various private and university archives. Most of the public lectures in Karlsruhe, and the seminars there, are also documented but not catalogued. Only one complete lecture, the final lecture of the cycle on classical Greek theatre in the auditorium of the state library in Karlsruhe, was published in 1999 by supposé. It is an interpretation of Sophoclean drama with the title Ödipus oder Das zweite Orakel [Oedipus or the Second Oracle]. That piece shows roughly what it was like when I could act freely in a live situation. Some time ago Auer Verlag issued an audio cassette with six recordings of lectures, but as far as I remember they were based on written scripts. There are probably around 1,500 hours of speech tapes in the archives. Regrettably, Suhrkamp Verlag couldn’t decide to take on management of the documents. Meanwhile the Centre for Art and Media Technology in Karlsruhe has taken the first steps towards collecting and archiving the material. A considerable proportion of the documents has been digitized and listened to for indexing purposes with the aim of deciding, using selected key words, which pieces are suitable for transcription. I suspect most of them can simply be forgotten with no loss, but perhaps some things are worth producing. It seems this project could move forward in the next few years. Incidentally, in the period when I lectured in Vienna and Karlsruhe there was a loyal audience composed of people from the university and local residents in the city whose presence gave me the illusion of not talking entirely to the wind. Sadly, I have never been in the position of Meister Eckart when he claimed he was so full of God that he would have preached to the offertory box if there had been nobody to hear him. I was happy to have an audience and let their presence inspire me.

KLEIN: Let’s not forget that the Philosophische Quartett is still available in the ZDF archives.³

SLOTERDIJK: According to my calculations, we produced sixty-three programmes in ten and a half years. My appearances in my own TV programme constitute a special category that has practically nothing to do with the rest of my work. In the Quartets I was always very reserved, aside from a few exceptions when I indulged in spinning yarns a little more freely. Usually I played the discreet moderator whose main concern is to offer the guests the best possible frame. You could call it the achievement of being lacklustre, which has its own attraction.

KLEIN: Let me briefly quote from Kant’s Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals:

This descending to popular concepts is certainly very commendable, provided the ascent to the principles of pure reason has first taken place and has been carried through to complete satisfaction. That would mean that the doctrine of morals is first grounded on metaphysics and afterwards, when it has been firmly established, is provided with access by means of popularity.⁴

Could you identify with this statement in your work as a public intellectual?

SLOTERDIJK: I can’t shake off the impression that Kant is expressing himself much more simply here than he really thought. He is pretending to believe philosophy is a result-based science that stops short of the last insights. They can naturally be popularized without difficulty. But that’s not how things are. I assume that if philosophers knew something relevant with absolute certainty it would have seeped through by now. Since Kant, philosophers have had 200 years to reach agreement. But they disagree more than ever. The model of ex-cathedra popularization of metaphysically certified doctrines can’t be applied to today’s intellectual situation. Nobody knows any more what generally compelling ‘fundamental metaphysical principles’ might be. Theoreticians can’t even agree whether the word ‘fundamental’ is a meaningful term. The whole business of ‘making something fundamental’ has become problematic. One gets the impression all the fundamental rule-makers are going round in circles. Incidentally, the symptomatic metaphorical mistake in the comment by Kant you just quoted shows that he couldn’t decide himself in which area to look for the so-called principles. He says, first we should ‘ascend’ to them, and then, two lines later, we find the same principles have descended again to become the secure ground on which popular teaching should be ‘firmly grounded’. The debate over ‘grounding’ ran dry some time ago. I think it was best summed up in the maxim attributed to Le Corbusier that the ground is the foundation of the basis.

KLEIN: But then, what can a philosopher still share with the wider public?

SLOTERDIJK: I tend to regard philosophy not as a specialized subject but as the mode of working on a topic. Anybody who thinks more philosophico locates positive knowledge against the background of unknowing and in the context of general concerns. This creates an oscillation between affirmations and sceptical moments. If this is done over a lengthy period, when we share thoughts and ideas we can see for ourselves that we have much more unknowing in common than effective knowledge. Over time, the non-professional participants in such exercises can adopt this mode of thinking. In the process one learns how to be sure-footed on shaky ground. This kind of modal philosophical behaviour can go in many directions. In the future it can even touch a larger public, whereas it would be unrealistic to expect philosophy as an academic subject to emerge from its conclave again. Fortunately, there is a series of well-established disciplines such as anthropology, linguistics, ethnology, psychology, systemics and, more recently, neurology and particularly cultural theory that, in terms of the logic of their objects, operate more or less close to philosophy, or could do so. Their actors know quite precisely what they can do and where the borders of their art lie. We can pick up on these findings. In the disciplines I have mentioned the archives are full of knowledge suitable for post-sceptical representation to the public. That is all I have been doing for a long time now.