I. The Epigraph That Waited
Some texts begin by presenting an argument. Others begin by posing a question. A few begin with a sentence whose meaning exceeds the language available at the time it is written. Such sentences do not merely introduce a work. They wait.
The epigraph that opened my doctoral dissertation belonged to this last kind. When it was first written, it expressed an intuition more clearly than I could then explain it. It named a tension I could recognize but not yet articulate, a wound I could perceive but not yet interpret, and a direction whose philosophical vocabulary had not yet emerged.




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