Telephone conversation and solitude

Also, I used to make long phone calls all the time.

Late at night, I sometimes would blather on for almost three hours. In the middle of my conversation, I would get hungry, make myself some ramen, and then keep on talking. My telephone was located in the center of my six-tatami room. When I was on the phone, I would lose sight of my small, dirty room, and it would be as though the person I was on the phone with and I were floating somewhere inside of that fanciful space.

In my own room, with my isolated solitude and one telephone line, I am connected with another solitary human being. I lived at a distance where I could easily have met that other person; however, we chose to speak over the phone. If it started to rain here, it would soon be raining there as well. As we shared the same city, Tokyo, we wanted to remain connected electronically.

What can this be?

I have always been turning this question over deeply in my soul. When I think about bioethics or the philosophy of a personal world, this question continues to linger and reverberate deep in my heart. After passing thirty years of age and moving to Kyoto, my thinking on this topic suddenly began to crystallize and I produced a book on it.

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The Structure of the Inner Life of a Philosopher (1998)
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