Tired of Freiburg, we catch the train to Titisee and hire a pedallo to paddle out into the lake. Feet on the dashboard, the blue bowl of the sky above us, we discuss the limits of phenomenology and the limits of the thought of Husserl and Heidegger, whose hut in Todtnauenberg we refuse to see.
We discuss the inadequacy of political thought in failing to tackle the question of political economy and the failure of philosophical thought to pose, really pose, the question of the environment collapse …
Above all, we bewail the fact that the great disasters about to befall us barely leave a trace in the intellectual reflections of our time. It's as if we were going to live forever, but the real thinker, we agree, knows without histrionics thought is fragile and already touched by death.
Isn't that what the young Rosenzweig knew as he reassembled The Star of Redemption in his barracks in Freiburg as he convalesced? It took him seven months, that's all. Seven months, and he was also writing a letter a day to his beloved …
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