In undergrad, we had to take philosophy courses. I struggled. I would read the works of learned minds and then attempt to relay what they meant in my journal entries. I received horrible grades on those entries.
Finally, I was fed up and wrote the truth, "I have not the slightest idea what this guy is talking about--looking at a wall, watching shadows and no one turning around? What the hell?"
And, I received an A.
My angst was worth an A where my carefully thought out stab at what the philosopher was philosophizing about did not. Then, we'd attend class and try and talk our way through whether we were because we thought and the nature of man. I found it to be a frustrating experience at times because I didn't really think you'd ever be able to pinpoint exactly what these philosophers meant. That was an exercise in futility, I realized. But, it also was not always acceptable to write about what the philosopher's work meant to you. A catch-22 and it pissed me off to no end.