The End of the Beginning by Douglas Penick

by Cosana Eram Those who like anniversaries—and I am one of them—have recently celebrated Michel de Montaigne’s birthday (on 28 February), a reason to revel in the quality of his writing and thought. The buzz started in the summer of 2015 when Philosophie Magazine Hors-Série featured several contemporary French thinkers...

by Jeremy Fernando … one is photographable, ‘photogenic’, and this is perhaps the catastrophe, that one can be photographable, that one can be captured and caught in time … — Hubertus von Amelunxen … the tragedy of the photographic object, the object that is photographed: that in order to preserve...

I’m in India. Or at least that’s what my perceptual experience, consciousness, and mind are telling me. It’s hard to know for sure. The reason I have doubts surrounds the immateriality of my being here, and moreover, the immateriality of India itself.

A naturally occurring phenomenon in philosophy is that the key concept, the one whose weight is greatest and thus whose gravity is strongest—eidos in Plato, cogito in Descartes, Dasein in Heidegger—is all but untranslatable

Over the past four decades, scholars in the American humanities have used deconstruction — a style of interpretation pioneered by the French philosopher Jacques Derrida.

Many newspapers have regular columns on science. But few of these columns are dedicated to a discussion of the nature or purpose of science. Almost all newspapers have regular pages devoted to sport.

Approaching the work of François Laruelle is a singularly disorientating experience. Billed in marketing blurbs and encyclopedia entries as a “philosopher,” Laruelle is difficult to place.

You might think that loneliness is a contingent state: people feel lonely for a time or lonely in a place, and some people are constitutionally lonely, but most people are not lonely all the time and human life is not necessarily lonely.

I have a childhood friend who is just a tiny bit younger than me but always so much younger, her skin never showing her age, her cheek marked with a birthmark so Hawthornian it seemed impossible ever to finish looking at her.

The Confusion of Tongues, Gustave Doré, 1865 by M. Munro I. Dichtung und Wahrheit Strictly speaking, does not thought—or the act of thinking—always have the capacity for operating like a foreign language? —Rey Chow Philosophie dürfte man eigentlich nur dichten. Wittgenstein’s imperative translates, “very roughly,” “Philosophy ought really to...

A civil war in Syria has, since it began in 2011, gradually radiated out to implicate nearly ever major global actor.

My interest in the works of C. S. Lewis was occasioned less by having read it than by the strongly divided opinions of it among his readers.

Franz Kafka was no stranger to fear and anxiety—his works radiate them. Yet his oeuvre is not simply a catalogue of the terrifying and traumatic situations that can befall humans.

What we need is techne to attempt to approach, but we never will reach, as it were, since becoming is infinite - or eternal if we want to drop that bomb.

The crime of Barruecos, Arturo Michelena, 1895 by Jessica Sequeira The days are at last softening into summer, and your mind does not allow you to read anything heavy. You flip through a book of photographs called Private diary of a nation, which shows page after page of objects and...

Walter Benjamin’s Archive, which has just been published in paperback to mark the 75th anniversary of his untimely death, has left me thinking that Benjamin might just have been a blogger in the making.