I wouldn't call this a philosophical treatise exactly, since Ligotti's intention seems to be to disturb and to alienate rather than to enlighten. If you've ever wondered whether we are nothing but cosmic puppets and human consciousness nothing but illusion, if you have ever suspected we are mere bags of skin crammed full of sequential sensations imagining themselves to be human, if you have ever guessed that the creation of the universe may be nothing but God's desperate attempt to commit suicide by shattering himself into a trillion pieces, or if you have concluded that the perpetuation of humanity is in itself a wrongheaded enterprise, only partially absolved by negative population growth, then this book may be just the thing for you. This is an impressionistic survey by weird fiction writer Thomas Ligotti of the bleakest practitioners of modern philosophy, the guys who make Cioran look like a stand-up comic and Schopenhauer and Camus like irresponsible pollyannas. Are you one of those hardcore True Detective fans held in thrall by Detective Rust Cohle's rants about the bleakness of the universe? Did you wonder where all that weird stuff was coming from? Here.
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