Why is it, then, that when I encounter defenses for the value of a humanistic education today, I can’t help but find the resulting arguments reductive, opportunistic, mealy-mouthed—and above all, weak?
A few days after my youngest brother died last August, I started to think about Lazarus all the time.
Time seems to have come to a halt. Ennui builds—and yet, the stillness is rife with threat.
In a country where the random slaughter of children is so common that it’s been integrated into the structure of ordinary life, literary culture simply has nothing to say on the subject.
Why, then, if Cavell was so interested in making philosophy less technical and more inclusive—more admitting of “ordinary,” personal experience—did he write the way he did?
A few days after my youngest brother died last August, I started to think about Lazarus all the time.
Time seems to have come to a halt. Ennui builds—and yet, the stillness is rife with threat.
In a country where the random slaughter of children is so common that it’s been integrated into the structure of ordinary life, literary culture simply has nothing to say on the subject.
Why, then, if Cavell was so interested in making philosophy less technical and more inclusive—more admitting of “ordinary,” personal experience—did he write the way he did?
Enter the basement of the Centre des Archives Nationales in Beirut and you’ll immediately notice the large white sacks, overflowing with documents and papers, strewn across the main hall.
A foreword to the literature of issue 28.
First of all Viola Hill and Gracie Rae Gooden were arguing over how do you raise a dead man up from the dead, so loudly that I had to slide the shutter window open in the office where I was trying to do the books, in order to get a clearer hearing and a closer view of what exactly and precisely was going on, which I couldn’t of course because of McGovern McNabb’s ponderous, greasy globe of a yellow head and Gracie Rae’s hand waving a butcher knife.
while some arms release you, others receive you. that was the title of the novel i wanted to write. that i started to write. that i ran out of time to write. i let time go by and now it’s too late.
I remain ambivalent about the transformations in the political economy of higher education that are clearing a limited space for seminars like mine. A part of me does not want to cooperate.
How should a person fuck?
How can studying, thinking, reading and writing change the world?
