Philosophy of Stalking

This is from the book, "Between Man & Man" by Martin Buber, an early 20th century Jewish philosopher:

Observing, Looking on, Becoming Aware

We may distinguish three ways in which we are able to perceive a man who is living before our eyes. (I m not thinking of an object of scientific knowledge, of which I do not speak here.) The object of our perception does not need to know of us, of our being there. It does not matter at this point whether he stands in a relation or has a standpoint toward the perceiver.

The observer is wholly intent on fixing the observed man in his mind, on "noting" him. He probes him and writes him up. That is, he is diligent to write up as many "traits" as possible. He lies in wait for them, that none may escape him. The object consists of traits, and it is known what lies behind each of them. Knowledge of the human system of expression constantly incorporates in the instant the newly appearing individual variations, and remains applicable. A face is nothing but physiognomy, movements but gestures of expression.

The onlooker is not at all intent. He takes up the position which lets him see the object freely, and undisturbed awaits what will be presented to him. Only at the beginning may he be ruled by purpose, everything beyond that is involuntary. He does not go around taking notes indiscriminately, he lets himself go, he is not in the least afraid of forgetting something("Forgetting is good", he says). He gives his memory no tasks, he trusts its organic work which preserves what is worth preserving. He does not lead in the grass as green fodder, as the observer does; he turns it in and lets the sun shine on it. He pays no attention to traits ("Traits lead astray," he says). What stands out for him from the object is not "character" and not "expression" ("The interesting is not important," he says). All great artists have been onlookers.

But there is a perception of a decisively different kind. The onlooker and the observer are similarly orientated, in that they have a position, namely the desire to perceive the man who is living before our eyes. Moreover, this man is for them an object separated from themselves and their personal life, who can in fact for this sole reason be "properly" perceived. Consequently what they experience in this way, whether it is, as with the observer, a sum of traits, or, as with the onlooker, an existence, neither demands action from them nor inflicts destiny on them. But rather the whole is given over to the aloof fields of aestheis.

It is a different matter when in a receptive hour of my personal life a man meets me about whom there is something, which I cannot grasp in any objective way at all, that "says something" to me. That does not mean, says to me what manner of man this is, what is going on in him, and the like. But it means, says something to me, addresses something to me, speaks of something that enters my own life.

I read the book in college and I always found the above section... creepy. It reminded me of people who talked to their TVs, or stalkers with erotomania disorder. The same way "Finding Neverland" bugged me because a grown man who hangs out in a park to play with little boys... just isn't right.

In this day and age - when we have a diagnosis for every possible ailment of the body, mind, and soul - it's easy to be cynical about other people's feelings. Especially about feelings. What Hollywood has romanticised, psychiatry has negatively categorized. The quest for spiritual balance has been deemed "relativistic" by the Vatican. The mystics of old might be the schizophrenics of today. We have grown older and more jaded.

That's why... I welcomed the Delia Gallagher "cold". For one instant in my life, I didn't want to be jaded and practical and logical and sane. For a few moments, I wanted to experience the angst of infatuation again. Of course I knew it wouldn't last. There's nothing to sustain it, or develop it, or nurture it. She's there and I am here and that is that.

I would probably still smile when I see her on TV again. Or rejoice when she finally publishes her first book or wins her first Peabody. Or sometimes read her writings in hope of seeing a glimpse of her heart - and in this lifetime, that's good enough for me.