You ever open a book and feel it mocking you? That’s me every time I dive into Nietzsche’s On the Genealogy of Morals. It sits there, a smug block of text daring me to make sense of it.

And Plato? His Republic might as well be written in ancient Martian.

I imagine him, toga and all, smirking across time. But I keep coming back, like a moth to a flame—or maybe a fly to some existential garbage heap.

Let me guess: you’re here because you’ve been through it, too. You open these so-called “Great Books” expecting enlightenment, but instead, you get labyrinthine sentences that twist and turn until you forget why you started reading in the first place.

It’s like trying to eat spaghetti with a pair of knitting needles—messy, futile, and a little degrading.

The Wall of Words

Philosophy doesn’t ask for your attention; it demands it with a sledgehammer.

Nietzsche writes like he’s in a bar fight with existence itself, throwing intellectual punches at your values, your assumptions, even your self-worth.

Reading him is like shadowboxing. Plato, on the other hand, invites you to a party, only to trap you in a debate where everyone but you is drunk on metaphors.

Philosopher	Style	Difficulty
Plato	Conversational, allegorical	High, but poetic
Nietzsche	Aggressive, aphoristic, abstract	Headache-inducing
Derrida	Linguistic gymnastics	“Just give up” level

The cruel joke is this: it’s not just you.

Philosophical texts are deliberately hard, like intellectual boot camps.

Nietzsche wasn’t kidding when he said, “All truly great thoughts are conceived by walking.” Y

eah, Nietzsche, but does the walk have to be uphill, barefoot, and through a minefield of incomprehensible syntax?

Explaining It to a Kid (or Your Inner One)

Imagine you’re in a park, and some wide-eyed kid asks, “What’s philosophy about?” You sigh, wondering where to even start.

“Well,” you say, “Plato thought we’re all stuck in a cave, looking at shadows and thinking they’re real. He says we need to climb out of the cave to see the truth, but he wrote it like it’s a puzzle for geniuses.”

“And Nietzsche?” they ask, tilting their head.

“He’s like a really angry punk rocker who’s mad at the universe. But he uses so many big words, it’s like he doesn’t want anyone to understand him.”

The kid frowns. “Why would anyone do that?”

You shrug. “Maybe they think struggling makes you smarter. Or maybe they just enjoy watching people suffer.”

The Mystical Lure of Not Understanding

Here’s the thing: there’s something oddly seductive about not getting it.

As someone drawn to mystical theories, I see philosophy like alchemy—turning ignorance into wisdom.

The process is opaque, messy, and sometimes feels like a scam. But that allure, the idea that just beyond the veil of incomprehension lies some cosmic truth, keeps us hooked.

It’s not just philosophy.

Think about James Joyce’s Ulysses or Kafka’s The Trial. People worship these texts, not because they’re fun, but because wrestling with them makes you feel like you’re grappling with something bigger than yourself.

Book/Writer	Opposing Viewpoint
The Problems of Philosophy – Russell	Advocates clarity, simplicity in philosophical writing.
1984 – George Orwell	Emphasizes plain language, criticizes obfuscation.
The Elements of Style – Strunk & White	“Omit needless words”—the anti-Nietzsche mantra.

Russell and Orwell would scoff at Nietzsche’s wordy tantrums.

They’d probably laugh Plato out of the room. But clarity, while noble, doesn’t always hit as hard. Sometimes, it’s the struggle itself—the intellectual heavy lifting—that makes you feel alive

So, Are We Dumb?

No. Or at least, not as dumb as we feel. Reading philosophy is like learning guitar: at first, every chord feels impossible. Your fingers cramp; your soul weeps. But you keep at it, and one day, you’re not just playing—you’re making music.

Philosophy isn’t about answers; it’s about learning to sit with the questions. And if Nietzsche or Plato feels like too much, there’s always Marcus Aurelius.

The man wrote for soldiers, not scholars. No riddles, no cryptic allegories—just straightforward advice for surviving existence.

End The Consumerist Mindset (that’s a brutal segement)

Reading philosophy is like trying to run a marathon after years of sitting on your ass, gorging on fast food and mindless distractions.

The struggle goes against every fiber of the modern world, a world where everything is streamlined and instant. We’re addicted to convenience, and it’s killing us slowly.

We can swipe through a thousand TikToks in ten minutes, absorbing superficial nonsense that promises to fix our lives, all while we gorge ourselves on cheap, processed thoughts that fill the space but don’t nourish the mind.

Hell, even the books we read are turned into snackable bits of information—tweet-sized wisdom, podcasts where ideas are reduced to sound bites, and articles that hit you with a headline, a paragraph, and a clickbait call to action.

You want deep thought? Too bad. Just keep scrolling, the next “big idea” will be here in a second.

Then there’s philosophy—this stubborn, ugly beast that refuses to bend to our lazy appetites. It makes you work. It demands that you slow down. Reread. Struggle.

It won’t let you get away with skimming the surface or passing through it like a hollow bullet.

Philosophy says, “I’ll eat your time, and I’ll leave you exhausted with a head full of ideas you can’t even fully grasp yet.”

It doesn’t offer quick fixes or empty answers.

It’s like a brutal workout for the mind. You push through it, trying to digest concepts that seem to slip away the moment you think you have a grip on them, and by the time you’re done, your brain feels like it’s been wrung out like an old, wet towel.

If you’re lucky, something new will stick, but don’t count on it being easy.

But that’s the point, isn’t it?

The difficulty is what gives philosophy its weight. That’s what makes it worth something. It’s not meant to be consumed like a can of soda or a slice of pizza—it’s supposed to get under your skin, make you uncomfortable, and force you to confront the limits of what you know.

It’s meant to shatter the facade of simplicity, to rip apart the idea that everything can be reduced to a quick, digestible soundbite.

Philosophy isn’t designed for those who want quick answers; it’s for those who are willing to live with the questions.

The modern world is a constant stream of shiny distractions, a wave of dopamine hits designed to keep you engaged without ever truly engaging your brain.

It’s all fast food for the mind. But philosophy resists that. It makes you slow down, chew on its ideas, and really wrestle with them, whether you like it or not.

It doesn’t cater to your need for instant gratification. And that’s what makes it such a necessary, ugly, beautiful thing in a world that’s growing more impatient by the day.

Philosophy doesn’t care if you’re in a rush, and it doesn’t give a damn if you think it’s too hard.

It’s not supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to challenge you, make you uncomfortable, and leave you questioning everything you thought you knew about life.

Because if it were easy—if it handed you answers on a silver platter—what would be the point?

We’d all be reading a self-help book and calling it a day.

But philosophy isn’t that, and thank God for that. So, sit down, shut up, and let it do its dirty work. You might just come out the other side a little less ignorant.

Practical Advice for the Lost and Bewildered

So, how do you tackle these intellectual behemoths without losing your mind?

Here’s a battle plan:

Slow Down.

You’re not reading a thriller; you’re decoding a puzzle. A grad student once shared their rule for reading philosophy with me: “I wouldn’t read a new sentence until I thought I understood the sentence I just read.” Sure, it’s time-consuming, but philosophy rewards patience.

Take Notes.

Note-taking isn’t just for students. Writing down key arguments, counterarguments, and personal reflections helps you remember what you’ve read and forces you to engage actively with the text.

Start Simple.

If Nietzsche feels like too much, start with more accessible writers. Bertrand Russell’s The Problems of Philosophy or James Rachels’ The Elements of Moral Philosophy are great entry points.

For Plato, try Euthyphro before diving into The Republic.

Reread and Revisit.

Your first read-through isn’t supposed to be definitive. Treat it like scouting a battlefield: you’re just getting the lay of the land. The real understanding comes with revisiting the text.

Embrace the Struggle.

The struggle is where the growth happens.

The Sad, Funny Conclusion

So here we are. You’re staring at the void of philosophy, and the void’s staring back, flipping you off with a smug grin.

But you keep reading, because maybe—just maybe—the struggle is worth it. Or maybe it’s not, and this whole exercise is just a fancy way to waste time.

Either way, you’ve got a story, a scar, and maybe a little more grit than you had before.

Reading philosophy is like chasing a shadow. You’ll never catch it, but in the chase, you’ll stumble, laugh, cry, and maybe even feel a little more alive.

Or it’ll drive you to drink.

Either way, you’ll have something worth remembering.