I read to recollect the dead, even those who are alive are dead when their works are read - they can only speak and never answer a question posed, to only speak is to be dead. When I recollect them I fear I will dishonor them by proclaiming them my masters. That those I read rarely agree with each other resists any attempt to allow for any one master, though Derrida through his undecideability oftentimes moves the closest. Regardless I always seek myself in their works, like an idol I hope their thoughts will merely reflect mine so that I will be certain that what I think is acceptable.

I can see this in every statement of purpose I write. I approach each one with fear. Will they agree with me? Will Milbank want to admit me if I focus too much on philosophy? Will the folks at Villanova still want me if I sound too much like Caputo? An over-comer would present herself raw and naked and that would be enough.

I could never fight for truth. A body I could fight for, a person, a love but never truth. I'm not sure that truth really deserves to have anyone fight for it in the end.