There was a time when all the philosophers were absurdly, epochally despairing. When they wrote of the uttermost of world disgust and the era of perfect culpability and that the world was only worthy of being destroyed.
We’ve lost the sense of the vastness of the horror. Of the infinite spaces that terrify. Of the fact that the stars have fallen. That we live in destitute times.
Where’s good old philosophical despair? They don’t do it like they used to.
Work in Progress 