Shelves reaching up to the ceiling, filled with books containing thoughts.
Fine dust sparkling like gold swirls gently through the room, enters the head and gets thoughts moving and glooming.
A crackling fireplace.
The philosopher’s chamber is full of old objects. There are mechanical orerries, a still functioning typewriter from the twenties, a record player from the fifties, a secretary from the colonial era, a desk Louis XVI, a chest of drawers Louis XIV. The interior is composed from different eras. That is why connections to time fade in here, not only of the decade one lives in, but the whole course of time itself. Time doesn’t exist in here. The chamber is timeless.
The philosopher’s chamber is not completely unacquianted with technique, for there is a record player besides the desk on which from time to time you can hear a Jazz tune playing. Also there is a radio on the left side of the desk, of course in tune with the philosopher’s channel, where you can hear Raphael Enthoven, Michel Foucault, Simone de Beauvoir or George Steiner reflecting on being and not being.
On the desk there are piles of notepads and sketches, read letters, commenced essays, open books, record sleeves, a bottle of the finest „Côte du Rhône“ and wraps of candy.
The philosopher’s chamber is a place you enter mostly at night, when the thoughts leave everyday life. It is a place you can not enter whenever you want. Only when you turn away from the superficial daily grind, you can make room for the essential questions.