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You mentioned your affinity for trees and how you find yourself doodling them quite often. Why and what's the thing with doodles? (laughs)

It's become somewhat of a habit for me, really. I find myself creating these doodles in my journals, during my time in grad school, and even now, occasionally during student presentations. I know it may seem like I'm not paying attention when I'm doodling, but in reality, it helps me focus on the core arguments being presented rather than just skimming the surface, almost as if doodling creates a separate mental space for me to engage deeper with the material. 

Besides, there is something about the act of drawing lines that intrigues me. Despite not having a background in art, I find myself drawn to it. Even in my attempts to sketch landscapes, there's a certain appeal to the lines. It's hard to explain, but it's as if each line holds its own topology or the potential to shape a new perspective.

I understand what you mean. I picked up drawing later in life too. At first, it was more of an intuitive obsession for me. But as I continued, I realized that I could reproduce shapes that held meaning. I'm not entirely convinced that all artists possess an inherent connection to the dimensions you mentioned. 

Great artists such as Picasso and Salvador Dali achieved mastery in classical composition and drawing before they broke artistic norms. They transcended traditional forms, demonstrating genius. As an editor, particularly in poetry, I face the challenge of dispelling the misconception that genius arises effortlessly. The media often portrays abstract creators as geniuses without recognizing the effort and foundational knowledge behind their work.

I can't help but think about the role of observation in learning, particularly in unconventional contexts. It's fascinating to consider how unconscious learning processes shape individuals' abilities. Take, for instance, the story of chess grandmasters like Raul Capablanca, who, from a very young age, just observed his father's games. This kind of pattern recognition and intuition probably resulted in his chess mastery, which we now mistaken for innate genius, overshadowing the years of observation, dedicated learning and practice.

The myth of genius is unrealistic, especially among young students who believe that pouring their emotions into their work automatically makes it exceptional. I recall a humorous incident during my time in an MFA program, where a student was crafting a thesis on love poetry without any awareness of the literary tradition. When I asked her if she had drawn inspiration from poets like Sappho, she seemed completely unaware of Sappho's legacy in love poetry. It was a surreal moment. I asked her to drop everything she was doing and go read Sappho!

Philosophical Inquiry vs Writer's Solipsism

Not building upon existing knowledge when you are a writer is surreal, indeed. For instance, in my publishing endeavors, I've noticed that many poets (and artists) seem solely focused on their own work and show little to no interest in the works of their peers. It's almost as if they operate within their own bubble of creation. I wonder if it stems from a sort of writer's narcissism.

I agree, there's definitely an element of narcissism at play, but also a dose of tribalism within literary circles. In other words, they're influenced by their environment. For instance, in MFA programs, there's often a prescribed list of influential writers that students are encouraged to study. This creates a kind of literary echo chamber where individuals can become fixated on a narrow range of contemporary or thematic influences, rather than embracing a wider spectrum of literary voices and traditions. 

I believe it's crucial, especially for young writers, to broaden their literary horizons by reading widely, including classics. There's so much to learn from the works that have stood the test of time. I make a point of revisiting classics regularly. 

How did you become a philosopher, and when did the blending with poetry occur?

It's a bit of a long story. My interest in philosophy was sparked at a young age, thanks to my father's extensive collection of books. Despite my troubled times in middle school, I found solace in the library where I stumbled upon Aristotle. His approach to understanding the essence of things intrigued me and set me on the path to studying philosophy in college and eventually pursuing it in grad school at the University of Connecticut.

The blending of poetry with my philosophical pursuits has been a gradual process, one that perhaps began long before I even realized it. I've always been a dedicated journaler, starting from my early teens. During my time in grad school, I often found myself pondering over parables, stories, and sometimes poetry in those journals. While these writings weren't intended for publication, they laid the groundwork for integrating aspects of poetry and philosophy in my work.

If I had to choose a year, though, I'd say 2020 was pivotal. During the lockdown, I came across examples of lyric essays, like Anne Carson's work, which struck a chord in me. I also stumbled across the writings of Alfonso Linguis, a philosopher whose discursive style sparked my interest. It was during this time of hiking, quarantine, and reflection, that I penned an essay about mountains, marking the beginning of a style I've been refining ever since.

As both a philosopher and a creative practitioner, how do you address ethical concerns surrounding the personal lives of influential figures in philosophy and art?

I believe in separating the individual from their intellectual contributions. As philosophers, we're trained to evaluate arguments based on their merit independently, regardless of the speaker's character. This doesn't negate the importance of ethical scrutiny but emphasizes the need for critical engagement with ideas rather than ad hominem judgments. It's essential to develop a nuanced understanding and encourage intellectual discourse.

David Capps, thank you for this enlightening conversation.