By Stanley Cavell
An autobiography within the kind of a philosophical diary, Little Did I Know's underlying intent is to explain the occasions of a existence that produced the type of writing linked to Stanley Cavell's identify. Cavell recounts his trip from early youth in Atlanta, Georgia, via musical reviews at UC Berkeley and Julliard, his next veering off into philosophy at UCLA, his Ph.D. stories at Harvard, and his part century of training. Influential humans from numerous fields determine prominently or in passing over the process this memoir. J.L. Austin, Ernest Bloch, Roger classes, Thomas Kuhn, Robert Lowell, Rogers Albritton, Seymour Shifrin, John Rawls, Bernard Williams, W. V. O. Quine, and Jacques Derrida are not any longer with us; yet Cavell additionally can pay homage to the dwelling: Michael Fried, John Harbison, Rose Mary Harbison, Kurt Fischer, Milton Babbitt, Thompson Clarke, John Hollander, Hilary Putnam, Sandra Laugier, Belle Randall, and Terrence Malick. The flow of his narrative additionally registers the decisiveness of the fairly unknown and the merely unintentional. Cavell's lifestyles has produced a path of a few eighteen released books that diversity from remedies of person writers like Wittgenstein, Austin, Emerson, Thoreau, Heidegger, Shakespeare, and Beckett to reports in aesthetics, epistemology, ethical and political philosophy, cinema, opera, and faith.
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An autobiography within the kind of a philosophical diary, Little Did I Know's underlying purpose is to explain the occasions of a existence that produced the type of writing linked to Stanley Cavell's identify. Cavell recounts his trip from early youth in Atlanta, Georgia, via musical reviews at UC Berkeley and Julliard, his next veering off into philosophy at UCLA, his Ph.
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Extra info for Little Did I Know: Excerpts from Memory (Cultural Memory in the Present)
She said she had to go back to learn what they had decided. I must have blanked out again, doubtless because of the remnant of whatever sedative had put me to sleep, since the next thing I remember is getting into our car on a bright day, into the back where I was to lie down on the seat. My mother brushed away a blood-stained shirt from the seat as I climbed onto it. I do not remember whether it seemed remarkable to me that no one else was there to help my mother manage these things. July 13, 2003 It was impressed upon me that the price of allowing me to return home so soon was that I obey strict instructions about getting plenty of rest, which included taking a nap every afternoon, a ritual I particularly objected to.
They were dead right about the lasting impression made in such a case as this sign. 24 L I T T L E DI D I K N OW July 10, 2003 My father’s rages sometimes brought on what my mother called his “attacks,” which she also sometimes described as acute indigestion, from which he more than once was reported to have fainted, and once reported almost to have died as he was being rushed to the hospital. From the time I knew of these events, I took the onset of his reddening face and his gritting teeth and his shouted words as signs of death at the door, and of course believed I might sometime be the cause of its walking in.
It was decreasingly practiced, except in certain conventional conversations, principally with his father, after he arrived in America at age sixteen (approximately), in 1905, twenty-one years before I was born. Before his mother died, she might well have demanded that he speak English to her, since she had, after settling the family, continued in night school longer than my father, because she was intent on learning to write as well as to speak with reasonable propriety the language of their new country.