Thinking takes its birth at the moment of it being wounded, the moment when the world suddenly opens itself like a wound, when an immense question mark erupts in the middle of our life and when nothing in the world appears to be so absolute and self-sufficient. If there were no such wound, if the world as it exists were sufficient for the mortals, philosophy would be mere superfluous luxury, a pass-time for idle chatter, a prattle arising out of boredom.
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