Broyer as with Centuries or Meat

The thing came at me in this precise way: As the face -- the face on a small body perhaps. As the small body falls from the arms. Face first into snow. Snow that is red. This is the face of Lévinas and as such your language without a philosophy of hunger is incomplete. Without a philosophy of touch. Without a philosophy of greed. And so on.


The face of Lévinas appears as two eyes commanding murder and fragility.

Touch what wants touching and you will break alongside the thing you would hold if in your language there were moments for breath and the capacity to yearn.



Lévinas is not your language.

And you have yet to speak.