Cigarette smoke drifts over the surface of the desk—the picture of [Pilate’s] wife when she still had her looks, the onyx box from Caesar, the clay plaque with the imprint of his first son’s hand on it, made while he was still a child in nursery school. Pilate squints at the man through the smoke and asks his question. He asks it half because he would give as much as even his life to hear...
My wife took her first philosophy class at her southern California high school. Along with many other historical figures in philosophy, her teacher lectured on Kant. Unfortunately, the only thing that she can remember about Kant is the phrase, “Kant was a real pisant.” To be honest, I have found that this sort of reaction to Kant’s philosophy is pretty common. Michael Slote in his book Essays on the History of Ethics has a chapter...
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