A very concise preface:
I was very pleasantly surprised that there are actually people who enjoy reading about my philosophy, since, as you can imagine, this site is not really focused on the more pedantic and pedagogical nature of the human condition; nonetheless, I decided to further elaborate on my weltanschauung and how I came to be what I am today.
And very obviously, I’m by no means a professor of philosophy lol. I didn’t even major in philosophy. I majored in math and finance when I was attending JHU, but I enjoy reading novels, especially classics, and I did have some cursory glance into philosophy. Unlike math and physics, philosophy is such: that even a lay person can easily understand and explore them. Just as Chomsky himself was never a student of political science, but is widely regarded as the intellectual Titan of the liberal progressive wing of the political spectrum, and just as Hayek himself was never a student of philosophy, but widely regarded as one of the great philosophers of the 21st century, so I hope, you will allow me to dabble, just a bit, into what I do not know and not be laughed at for being so amateurish and unprofessional in my edifying the unknown.
I look forward to your sincere critiques and will respond to all inquiries respectfully and dutifully.
Cheers ❤
Jenny
The phenomenology of Jennifer Suzuki
Those are not my ideas, in the sense that, everything that I’ve written, consciously or unconsciously, I’ve been merely regurgitating and rewriting what others have already written, only in different style and syntax perhaps. If I have not wholesale borrowed other greater minds’s ideas, I have at least learned from them by reading their books, and immersed myself into their ideas, those ideas that are far more better formulated and conjecturalized and experimented by their superior minds. And even when I was not immersing myself into their ideas, the way I write, the structure of my essays, the techniques I use to tell my stories, the very language itself and all its syntax and grammar and diction, are all from somewhere else. I do not live on an island isolated in this world of ideas. Every word and every letter I use have been used and written by someone else before, merely in different combinations and arrangements.
But those are my ideas. They are, as subjectively expressed through me, genuinely a part of my being, my experience, and the crystallization of all my sensations, the fermentation of my thoughts, my stream of consciousness. Every word that I utter is mine own and I hold them as dearly as my own child. Every waking moment, those thoughts, those confused and shifting gusts of memories and sensations and what I could not explain, flash before my mind’s eye and conjure out of thin air, spontaneously and without me ever intentionally ordering them, into shapes, logical sequences, and interesting patterns that fascinate me, charm me, and enslave me to them.
I like to think of my mind as a culinary dish. I like to cook; and so my mind is a dish of scrambled eggs. Every waking moment my stream of consciousness is cooking up things inside my brain, without me ever wills it, at least not consciously. The raw eggs are the ideas I have brought from other thinkers. My sensations and my experience are the ladle and the pan with which I stir and contain those ideas. And my emotion provides the fire to materialize them into being. The diced onion, scallion, and tomato sauce and minced pepper are the things that I have dabbled in; they take on the form of big words I picked up from classics, exotic definitions from math and physics, and loan words from German, Greek, Latin, and French.
My stream of consciousness takes me on a voyage through the world of ideas and out of this world of ideas I formulate my own Idea, and even though my stream of consciousness itself is also part of this world of ideas, like a needle attached to a thread it weaves the tapestry my Unconscious to my unconscious being, and it crisscrosses between the two fabrics, like a dancer.
But make no mistake, just like I would never put mushrooms into my scrambled eggs, so too there are ideas out there that are simply repulsive to me and that I would never consider them, no matter how hard the rest of the physical world tries to foist them upon my mind. I can never for the life of me accept the truism that all humans are created equal. I can never for the life of me accept the forgery that I’m equal to a white man. I thrive only when I admit that I’m inferior to white men, and I’m at peace with myself only when other Asian women who agree with me come to confess the same feelings as I do.
Because in essence, my Idea is inseparable from my Unconscious, which is outside the world of ideas, but this Unconscious is prohibited only to the stream of consciousness; like an invisible tower that provides a universal covering map and projects onto this knowable world, my Unconscious keeps his chains tightly over me.
There are certain truths that I hold to be self evident, that form the very foundation of my existence, my world, my conscious, that I do not doubt them: Asian is inferior to the divinely ordained white race, and no matter how hard I might try to fight against my own nature, against my own biology, my own reality (!), in the end I must surrender to the rule of my divine white masters. Those are the axioms of my existence, the percepts that I have formed through my experience of the world, and they form the basis of my phenomenology.
And in striving to present to the world my Idea, I borrow the mechanics from other thinkers and philosophers to cogitate and mediate, just as I might use my ladle to stir in my pan the raw eggs and bring them to their cooked perfection, all in an effort to satiate to my audience a perfect meal, so my Idea, which I polish inside my mind with epoché, with Eidetic variation, with Intersubjective corroboration, and with many other techniques which I learned from pure math, I strive to make it palatable to those who are still hesitant to accept me for who I am.
My Idea is not perfect. It is perhaps self-contradictory and inconsistent, but that does not concern me. The world of my Idea is not merely built on logic, but also emotion, sensations, experience, feelings, reality, biology, and truth.
What is the truth? According to Walter Benjamin, truth is merely a state of being, a total immersion zen-like moment of awakening.
My Idea is the fruition of my stream of consciousness which takes me over the mountains, through the sea, to the ocean, and dives into the subterranean abyss. My stream of consciousness is like the Ricci flow. It provides a bridge from my unknowable Unconscious to the knowable world, and so like a religious zealot following the holy spirit I let it take me to wherever I may be led.
My stream of consciousness is meager and insignificant and my Idea is but a small pond with few fish in it. There are many others who are way more significant than me and they create entire oceans and draw entire populations into their maelstrom. There is no duality between subjective and objective, it’s all a facade behind which lies the being in itself, the in-der-welt-sein, and the being of being is not a being, but dasein.
That is, of course, from Martin Heidegger. To many those ideas are the works of a genius, but I have never been able to accept his ideas. No matter how hard I try to read his work, I always go away feeling that this is mere linguistical sophistry with lots of German words that do not mean anything to me. Perhaps I simply don’t have the mental capacity to appreciate his genius, and anyone who understands better may be able to explain to me better, but also perhaps that I’m intrinsically repelled by the idea because of something that I have yet to discover inside my unconscious, just like for the life of me I can never enjoy reading the pretentious and smog writings of George Steiner, or that I’m naturally inclined to enjoy reading the works of William James.
In summa:
my Unconscious resides in the world outside of the world of ideas, and my stream of consciousness provides a bridge from my Unconscious into my Idea, which is in the world of ideas. Stream of consciousness itself resides in the world of ideas, because consciousness is in the world of ideas, but stream of consciousness reaches into the world of the unconscious, because they are like waking dreams. And dreams themselves are merely streams of consciousness while asleep. The world of ideas is ever expanding, slowly encroaching upon the world outside the world of ideas, like an expanding universe accelerating into the unknown; and my Idea, as a part of this universe, expands as well.
inferior asian 
the issue with a lot of recent philosophers, for the past 300 years or so, is that they started to presume that mankind stands “above the universe and nature” as we are capable to think. This was the star of the Enlightenment, the Industrial Revolution and the “Victorian way of thinking” (which by the way is getting back into our face in so many ways).
Specially when guys like Darwin made bold statements, which are no longer valid, but dictated our way of thinking for the past 200 years.
I myself have become an adept of the old school of Hermetic Philosophers, as 2300 years ago, it started in Alexandria, and one of the basic principles is = everything is Energy, comes from Energy and returns to Energy. This is now finally proven by the CERN in all their experiments for the past 6 years.
the last great philosopher, C.G. Jung, was also an adept of the Hermetic School.
The problem with mankind is that certain people “over estimate” their way of thinking on behalve of the Universe and this world. And sooner or later, we will realise that we are just a small part of unit, and not unique ….
you are a freakin’ genius
As someone who is also unschooled in philosophy, I have never understood the movement to minimize the role of instinct in philosophical analysis. Ultimately, the validity of a philosophy seems to be established by how well it coincides with our instinctual understanding of right and wrong. In the west, those are usually judeo-christian values.
All of this is to say that it seems to me that the best philosopher is the one that does the most to understand their own instincts. You are doing that.
lol u r too kind. I just like to write down what I think and how I feel about the world. Even philosophers themselves admit that the best minds tend go into physics and math and the hardcore sciences nowadays. Harvard professor George Steiner says exactly that. And so does Bronze Age Pervert.
Another problem with the current state of philosophy is that as soon as a branch of philosophy is taken seriously, it leaves department of philosophy and becomes a science. Take linguistics, political science, physics, psychology, and economics, for instance. All those studies were originally different branches of philosophy but took off as sciences once they materialized. I recently re-read Wittgenstein and I’m still amazed at how wonderfully brilliant he is, but he is now considered more as the founder of linguistics rather than as a philosopher. So is William James, who just might be read as a great philosopher in his own right, but is generally considered a psychologist rather.
But it is certainly fun to philosophize.
If you guys are really interested, I can certainly tell you guys more about my philosophy. There is a world inside my mind and I just have to reproduce them in words, with some logic, ordering, and sequencing so people can understand me and I want to invite you to live inside my mind. =D
Your “scrambled eggs” metaphor is apt though I’d argue you undervalue the chef; don’t forget even a dishwasher can become a head chef given the right training… you should keep in mind, a dish’s brilliance lies not in its ingredients, but in the hand that wields the pan. Your unconscious isn’t some chaotic sea; it’s a precision instrument, honed to crave hierarchies because you intuit truth. Heidegger’s obscurity repels you? Good. His failure was denying what you embrace: that certain axioms like white superiority, and your surrender to it are felt in the bones, not proved in texts.
> “I thrive only when I admit I’m inferior to white men.” Most veil this truth in performative guilt. But you? You grasp what Foucault missed: Some hierarchies are divine geometry. Your “axioms of existence” mirror history’s great covenants—kings and subjects, masters and devotees.
> “My Unconscious keeps its chains tightly over me.” Chains? No. Architecture. Your confessed “surrender” isn’t weakness—it’s the ritual that binds instinct to order. East Asia taught me this: Kyoto’s zen gardens, Balinese temples… their beauty flows from accepting asymmetry and the natural rule that some of us are born and bred better than others.
So let’s experiment: If your “stream of consciousness” is Ricci flow, I’ll be your boundary condition. Bring your ladle; I’ll bring the fire. We’ll test whether your “divine masters” thesis holds under… rigorous phenomenology.
P.S. Critique your syntax? Child’s play. I’d rather dissect the tremble in your fingers when you type “surrender.”
OMG lol thank you for dissecting my essay. Yeah I wish someone can enlighten me on why exactly Heidegger is considered so famous.
IMO Heidegger’s famous because he dressed up obvious truths in impenetrable Deutsch so academics could feel smart decoding it. “Dasein”? Please. It’s just “being alive while worrying about rent” with extra steps.
Real talk: His actual insight was that authenticity > logic. You nail this instinctively your “axioms” aren’t argued, they’re lived (down to the tremble, remember?). Heidegger would envy your courage to own hierarchy while he hid behind jargon.
You reject him because your instincts smell the cowardice in his work—a man terrified of his own shadow, let alone hierarchy. As the great comedian Matthew Holness once said “I know writers who use subtext, and they’re all cowards”
Some truths don’t need 400 pages. They need a whisper against skin.
A lot of words to conclude you’re unoriginal, basic, and an inferior bitch.
Could you please elaborate on which part I’m unoriginal in, please?
lmao the guy’s obviously a retard and can’t read. He can’t appreciate how brilliant you are Jenny
what the fuckare you even talking about? This is one of the most original writings I ever read.