Why blog?

Do I write out of love to men? No, I write because I want to procure for my thoughts an existence in the world. . . I sing because—I am a singer. But I use you for it because I—need ears.

— Max Stirner, Der Einzige und sein Eigentum (1844).

I am still wrestling with this phenomenon of blogging, not least because the word is so ungainly. It is a very conceited activity: why should anyone be interested in my thoughts? I have not contributed anything of lasting value to human knowledge. . . not yet. . . and so. . . the process leaves me uneasy. With every word I feel more vain, but then I find the act of writing so much comfort. To articulate oneself, to have complete control, and the leisure to speak relaxedly, with due measure, is a delight. And furthermore, Stirner reminds us that egoism is an acceptable, even unavoidable, basis for producing language: writing here is a means not of communication (an insidious idea!) but of asserting power. The reader is only a necessary tool.

Thus I unburden myself of these meaningless words, connections, ratiocinations, fancies, emotions, and so on, purely for egoistic reasons. It is a therapeutic activity, too. If only more people wrote, here where they can be ignored, rather than speaking, foisting their banal opinions on whomever is nearest, the world would be a more contented place. I don't yet know how best to present myself here, or which tones and subjects to employ; as with any new mode of communication, whether telegram, telephone, or email, a man needs time to adjust to it, to find an appropriate voice. But orating regularly, even into a digital vacuum, keeps the mind sharp, focused, and it forces me to refresh and develop a personal style. Moreover, I still cherish the naïve hope that some likeminded people might find all this interesting, that I might expand my range of fellows and feel like. . . part of the world. How silly!