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?