Abstract

When I was a very young assistant professor of philosophy, I had my first child. I also lost my father, and I realised that I was quite at a loss in knowing how to deal with those sorts of questions. I was this young hotshot philosopher, and I was 26, and I thought none of this taught me how to raise a kid or grieve for a parent, and in some sense I’ve been trained out of even thinking these are meaningful questions. That set me for some reason writing a novel.