In French

The late philosopher Georg Henrik von Wright once remarked that not learning French was one of the most significant omissions in his education. While more people in France may feel confident speaking English today than in the past, I realise that, just as for von Wright, not knowing French limits my world.

In contrast to the awakened world and the airy, white, minimalist Scandinavian home I have come to inhabit, my night-time dreams are less confined by linguistic or temporal barriers. I sometimes find myself surrounded by the décor of late-1960s Paris as captured by Bertolucci, or thrown back to street-side cafés that make me think of slow mornings with orange juice in Tangier.

Sipping the last glass of French bubbles (sorry to disappoint – but only Badoit mineral water, as Eddie woke me well before 5 am), I realise that August is almost over. A week from tomorrow, I will once again be teaching political philosophy to a new batch of undergraduates. Starting with the classics and the ancient Greek universe, it is a journey through time as good as any, including a couple of less-expected stops such as Christine de Pizan. As for the modern part, there is a distinct echo of Stephen Eric Bronner and the class I took with him at Rutgers in 2008.