Eccentric, belligerent, and entirely brilliant—philosophers occupy a uniquely persistent space in cultural thought. Socrates went without showering, Diogenes took up residence in a barrel, and Schopenhauer was likely the most misanthropic man to own a poodle. And yet, the thoughts of these unconventional men and women have provoked centuries of questions. Their words, greeting many readers through the musty pages of philosophy textbooks, move each of us to stop and consider: What’s all this for, anyway? Writer Eric Weiner traverses the history of these delightfully strange provocateurs, proving that not only is philosophy alive and well, but that even its ancient wisdom isn’t too distant to lead our souls into a fuller kind of life—truth itself.

If profound questions on the nature of human freedom and transcendent meaning don’t strike with the call of your 6 a.m. alarm clock, fear not; you may perhaps still be a philosopher. After all, the penetrating wit of Simone de Beauvoir required a bit of extra sleep, as did the unbreachable mind of Marcus Aurelius. When Aurelius did at last tumble from bed long after the sunrise, he did so to the waiting eyes of the Roman Empire (a pretty tough crowd to say ‘good morning’ to), and he got to work regardless. In AD 161, leading 20 percent of the entire world in a role he didn’t even sign up for, Aurelius embodied a resilience that often runs counter to our less noble human inclinations. And he also knew how to answer what the author calls “the Great Bed Question”—the puzzle of what exactly is required from each person’s life.

This question goes beyond the smaller, though not less meaningful, consideration of whether you should ignore or rise with the rooster’s crow (or your smartphone alarm clock). In his highly personal Meditations, Aurelius confronts this existential enigma and picks at the core of human action. According to Aurelius, despite the hardship of surrendering to the alarm clock and finally swinging your feet onto the floor, such a task is necessary. With comforting relatability, he writes, “At dawn, when you have trouble getting out of bed, tell yourself: ‘I have to go to work—as a human being.” This may sound a bit unreasonable to those with frustrating jobs or a whole agenda full of errands, but they shouldn’t ignore his words just yet. When beginning the day and partaking in one’s particular life is viewed as what the author identifies as a “duty” rather than an “obligation,” waking up grows less tiresome.

When one wears a lens of action inspired by duty, burdens become privileges, difficult though fulfilling acts required by one’s humanity. No matter what line of work you practice or what events befall you in the course of a day, participating in life validates your place within it—action flows from the individual for the individual. Though Aurelius drew his inspiration from a wealth of philosophers, including the likes of Socrates and Plato, his thought is primarily Stoic. Within this tradition, human action must rise to the occasion of an always-ambivalent, ceaselessly-shifting world, within which many events can’t be coordinated or foreseen, even by Aurelius's own insightful wisdom. The hours to which we wake may elude our control, but with a bit of help from Aurelius, at the end of the day, we might at least be able to say we gave it a decent, battle-worthy shot.

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Once you’re awake, you may want to pack your bags and head into the woods, or a quiet city park if that suits you better. Treading a demanding 20 miles every day, Jean-Jacques Rousseau preferred a forest over a city swarmed by people any day of the week. And he isn’t alone in his slow stumble toward understanding, either. Name a philosopher and chances are, that deep thinker was also a devoted walker. Not surprisingly, the walks of each of these movers and shakers mirrored the ways in which they questioned the world. The scrupulous Immanuel Kant, for instance, partook in an always-on-time turn around the same city street every day. Meanwhile, the heady musings of Friedrich Nietzsche often ascended the Swiss Alps, a fact which may explain their teeth-chattering frigidity. With characteristic eloquence, Rousseau writes, “I have never thought so much, existed so much, lived so much, been so much myself. . . as in the journeys which I have made alone and on foot,” a testament to the power of human habit to foster wily, unrestricted philosophy.

When the gates of Geneva (and the grace of his employer) shut on him after a particularly long walk in 1728, teenage Rousseau forsook his home. With this, he began a life that would walk him toward some pretty impactful thoughts. Though some of his more emotive works such as Emile and The Social Contract compelled weary neighbors to stone his temporary abode, many people throughout history have clung to Rousseau’s well-trodden revelations. His famous 1755 Discourse on the Origins of Inequality distills his thinking. His concept of “savage man,” a creature who thrived before the plague of office buildings, tax returns, and mundane human concerns, was in much better shape than we humans today. This savage man, (not incidentally), looked a lot like Rousseau, tramping through the breeze rather than hustling down the breezeway.

Just as Rousseau felt peculiarly misplaced under the normative glare of “polite society,” his philosophy espoused that typical life flipped human nature completely upside down. Perhaps human beings are neater, cleaner, and more comfortable now, but do city streets and air-conditioning make them more moral? According to Rousseau, these deceptive benefits do quite the opposite. His work differentiates between a human tendency he terms “amour-de-soi,” a self-satisfying “self love,” and “amour-propre,” the evil, self-absorbed twin of inward affection. While amour-de-soi engages hearts as an organic product of simply being human, amour-propre overflows as a manipulation wrought by civilized life. Many parts of life are simply perversions of what were once, long ago, typically neutral, even wonderful human inclinations—beloved as Rousseau’s endless walks.

It might take more than a few philosopher-walkers to trample all of humanity’s problems, but the acknowledgement that humans need thoughtful activity and engagement with the earth is something everyone can recognize today. Even if your walk doesn’t move you to ponder new, society-shattering philosophies, it will at least be a bit of exercise for much more than your physical self.

You may disagree with Rousseau’s take on the demoralizing nature of civilized human life, but you can’t deny that the world holds more than its fair share of problems—something an unlikely pair of thinkers knew perfectly well. Though the antisocial Arthur Schopenhauer and social reformer Mahatma Gandhi foster two crucially different perspectives on human nature, their advice on how to combat inevitable degradation is alike in many ways. Despite universal or particularly human tendencies to turn toward the demeaning, the cruel, and the base, each person must reach beyond oneself to something higher. For Schopenhauer, this something higher looks a lot like a flute, and for Gandhi, it takes the unassuming shape of a soft, peaceful megaphone.

Despite the adorable presence of Atman the poodle, Schopenhauer envisioned a dismal world for humans. In fact, he called it the “worst of all possible worlds,” which sounds melodramatic, even for him. Schopenhauer’s 1819 tome The World as Will and Representation, advanced his Idealist notion that lurking within each person’s unique perception of the world is a thoughtless and cruel companion he called the “Will.” This invisible oppressor compels all creatures (not just humans) to blindly yearn after things that will never make them happy, enveloped in a constant hamster wheel of disappointment. 

Humans don’t have to be simple pawns on the Will’s meaningless chess board, though. According to Schopenhauer, a regular flautist himself, monks and artists are especially well-situated to break the whims of the Will’s cruelty. But you don’t have to be a monk or an artist to flee the Will. When people simply enjoy or (better yet) practice art, they sever themselves from the self and the Will, partaking in an authentic reality beyond one’s merely perceived life. Even the combative Schopenhauer grew silent in the presence of beautiful music, especially when the notes flowed from the tranquil work of Rossini.

And just as Schopenhauer envisioned humanity’s flee from destruction through art, Gandhi advocated a similar kind of inventiveness—only a smidge less musical. In responding to a question from evangelist John Mott, Gandhi acknowledged that the greatest insight he ever experienced arrived in 1893, when he encountered prejudice while aboard a train departing from South Africa. This wasn’t simply a political, social, or practical insight, either. As the author writes, “Gandhi’s paintbrush was his resolve, his canvas the human heart”—an eye to recognize where both India and South Africa needed countercultural reform, no less artistic than the notes of Mozart.

Gandhi titled the product of his vision “satyagraha,” a Sanskrit word meaning “Truth Force,” or “Soul Force,” which if you haven’t already guessed, is more-than-slightly different from Schopenhauer’s malicious Will. Within this practice of nonviolence, people are encouraged to follow in the plentiful footsteps of Gandhi to take the much more difficult, though nobler route toward one’s destination. For India, this long-awaited location rose into view on August 15, 1947, a gradual though impactful turning point in the nation’s history.

Leading a peaceful revolution looks much different than playing the flute, but the practice of art and nonviolence require a thoughtful ingenuity that often clashes with typical human drives. Humane intuition requires conscious invention—a turn toward humanity despite its difficulty.

It takes little more than a glance to see that Simone Weil isn’t your typical philosopher. Even amid a privileged though imperfect Parisian childhood, one in which the young and fragile Weil memorized classics and archaic languages, she harbored a compassion that stood in equal measure to her intellect (unlike many known philosophers). Simultaneously delicate and iron-willed, Weil spent much of her time working in factories despite her consistently tenuous health. And if that wasn’t enough, Weil read and wrote endlessly, often forgetting about sleep and food altogether. She also taught philosophy and took part in the Free French Movement, France’s own anti-Nazi group. Eventually her endless care for others and her intense intellectual ability fused to produce her philosophical work, much of which is crystalized in her essay “Reflections on the Right Use of School Studies with a View to the Love of God”—a poetic portrait of what she defines as “attention.” 

Though the feat of honing one’s attention may sound as difficult as Rousseau’s nearly marathon-length walks or the tips Aurelius imparts to withstand draining days, it requires a less obvious form of work (though you probably should be awake for it). Weil’s attention requires present awareness, nothing more. Sitting within a particular moment, whether that’s while listening to a beautiful sonata or hearing a stranger tell of a recent heartbreak, is the only activity necessary. And yet, this brand of attentiveness is set adrift in the swift demands of society, a fact Weil recognized while watching the rapid work of factory laborers. Similar to the wisdom of Schopenhauer and the insight of Gandhi, Weil’s revelations encourage people to crawl out of the soul-crushing crevice of the self by engaging in freedom through awareness of something or someone else, what she calls “the highest ecstasy.”

Spending her last days in a sanatorium, probably leaning over a deluge of letters and books that still enchanted her dwindling mind, Weil passed away. Her unfortunate death at the young age of 34 is still ambiguous. Many onlookers continue to question whether it was truly the result of persistent ill health or a more intentional act. However Weil may have gone, the brevity of her full and authentic life makes her advice even more poignant. Like reading a novel without knowing the conclusion, or taking off on a journey without a destination, conscious awareness actively directs practitioners in ways that surpass their own limited abilities.

As one might expect from the philanthropic philosopher, one of the most significant areas to grow attentive is within the craft of listening to others. Remaining present to the words each person pours out, however tired you are (and no matter how verbose the teller happens to be), is akin to what Weil calls “a miracle.” Both the listener and the listened-to encounter something much grander than they would ever have envisioned on their own.

Encircled by hundreds of books and secluded from the raging bubonic plague which stole the life of his friend, the philosopher Michel de Montaigne escaped to think. Pondering away in a 16th-century French tower may sound like every pseudo-philosopher’s dream, but Montaigne’s musings stray into regions many thinkers simply tip-toe right over. Not shockingly, the Skeptic spent much of his time attempting to understand and reconcile himself with death—a fitting subject for a gloomy tower. To arrive at this goal, Montaigne let his mind meander in a series of essays, a concept he envisioned himself and took from the French word “assay,” which translates to the term “try.” His eventual mammoth of a work, The Complete Essays of Montaigne, encapsulates his thinking, encouraging death-wary readers not only to recognize death’s presence but to welcome it.

And Montaigne should know. When a large, unwieldy horse collided with his own, he thought it was all over—his wife, his family, his musings—everything dropped onto the floor, like his own mangled body. Thankfully for Montaigne (and for his future readers), he was wrong. Montaigne survived and used his experience to better comprehend death, an element he expresses as an integral facet of one’s individual humanity. Contrary to what one might expect, the moments Montaigne assumed carried his very last breaths were far from frightening. In fact, when he pondered his encounter later, he wrote that, “If you do not know how to die, don’t worry; Nature will tell you what to do on the spot,” using the incident as a creative exercise in understanding something as crucial, particular, and unfathomable as death.

In a similar (though perhaps less depressing) way, just as Montaigne believed that people should recognize the particularity of death, he also believed that people should fully embrace the unique questions and philosophies that are meaningful to them and incorporate those into their lives thereafter. In keeping with his squint-eyed Skepticism, he believed the only truths available to people, even those on death, were small, incomplete “flutterings”—expeditions into unconquerable land. Despite an army of books and a literal fortress, Montaigne recognized that philosophy carries a thinker only so far into the territory of truth. And yet, just as Montaigne realized himself while sitting alone in his secluded tower, questions continue to unfurl, rolling down like legions of visitors on the cusp of understanding.

It’s the responsibility of the philosopher, the engineer, the teacher, and every person from every background and line of work to unearth the things that set her mind spinning and move her toward a desire to learn. It doesn’t take a tower stuffed with dusty books to be a philosopher. A mind riddled with questions is more than enough—even if those musings never go anywhere at all.