| Vladimir Jankélévitch was a modest genius. A genius, because no one better than he could get to the bottom of a question, investigate a doubt, take up residence in a mystery. Death, the irreversible, irony, the unfinished - these are the regions he lives in, the paths he follows. From them he brought back enthusiasm in abundance and bouquets of subtlety; sometimes, as well, a sweet and solemn-sounding melody, a slow sonata humble and honest, left to him by his memory. The Holocaust robbed him of his family, but he decided to forgive; wisdom told him not to hate. All he had left were philosophy - his mission - and the piano - his passion. He could have been a concert pianist. He could have despaired. He contented himself with thinking, with writing and making friends. He contented himself with being the subtlest of thinkers. |
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Copyright ©: Jaydie Putterman / Pascal Balmer
Texts by Pascal Avot