I gave, over six months, various courses in Paris.

They were well received.

Many philosophy professors came. All of them French. They all spoke German. They could, thus, hear me in my tongue. Which, they too, considered the best of all for expressing, always elusively and exquisitely, philosophy.

I endeavored in my courses. That endeavor was a part of my prolific, meticulous plans for evasion. I wanted to arrange a cycle of conferences in Madrid. From there I would find it easy to travel to the end of the earth. That was, to me, Argentina. Being so, it could be nothing but the end point of my flight.

What was I fleeing?

Simple: I wanted to see the final catastrophe from afar.

More precisely: I wanted to ignore it.


Weeks before abandoning Paris I gave a talk on Being and Time. Heidegger, suddenly, was in fashion. Everyone read him. Or they all wanted to read him. They tried, successfully or not; in general, not. There wasn’t yet a translation of Being and Time in French. There was the version the French hack had already published. It was “his” Being and Time. I didn’t bother to consult it.

My fame as a direct disciple of Heidegger convoked many. I had a large auditorium and, strangely aided by the circumstances, a man like me (I mean: a not brilliant advocate), seduced that avid audience, prepared to be seduced, or already seduced. Not by me, by the Master.

Labels: The Shadow of Heidegger

¶ 4:00 AM