Post-truth is a misnomer. What we mean is post-critical: when normal is accepted as unchallengeable, even and especially when normal is morally complicated. The only streetwise response to a new norm that seems morally questionable is a knowing shrug denoting a comfy blend of indifference and wry detachment...
But we do have a place in the world, there's no need to fashion one out of thin air. We're part of a wonderfully diverse and tolerant society, and an incredibly complex ecosystem. We fulfill our potential by simply living and working, and being nice to each other and the environment.
It occurred to me that when he had got on the train, he instinctively gravitated closer towards me, another human being, to share his evening. We humans are social animals, and contact with others is very important to us. Having sat down opposite me, he ate his dinner and enjoyed his daughter's laughter in my company.
On the 4th of January, 1960, at the age of forty six, Camus had planned to take a train back to Paris after a Christmas holiday with his wife and kids. At the last minute, Camus changed his mind and decided to travel instead with his publisher Michel Gallimard. During the journey, Gallimard's car slipped off the icy roads and smashed into a tree, immediately killing Camus.
There's one aspect of the sport Stateside that doesn't subscribe to the same law of hyperbolic excess - the fans. If the rule that governs the rest of American life is observed, then those followers of MLB, NFL and the rest should find themselves reduced to orgasmic ecstasy by success and frothing rage by defeat.
On 4 January 1960 Albert Camus, the writer, absurdist philosopher and beloved intellectual pin-up of post-war France, was returning to Paris from his home in Provence after the Christmas holiday. Just short of his destination, the Facel Vega in which he was a passenger skidded off the road and concertinaed into a tree, killing him instantly.
When France was moralizing over the Armenian genocide the Turkish Prime Minister, Erdogan accused them of hypocrisy.
I met a literary agent the other day. She told me that these days when you sell a novel to publishers, there has to be a USP. "A what?" I said. "'Unique Selling Point. You know, narrated by a hermaphrodite, or someone who has been repeatedly raped by their grandfather, that sort of thing.
Meet Henri, the French cat who's undergoing an existential crisis the way only an French cat can: melodramatically. Fortunately