Heidegger talks about the passivity and receptivity of essential thinking, not something the result of your effort.  In German this is “Es Gibt,” “there is” or literally “it gives.”  For example, you might try in futility for hours to solve a problem when suddenly “it comes to you.”  Derrida’s analysis in “The Gift of Death” is similar regarding actions.  We speak of one’s “calling,” being called to be a lawyer or teacher or volunteer at a soup kitchen.  Derrida relates this to the story of Abraham and Isaac.  God has called (appel) Abraham to sacrifice his son, with no explanation and in contradiction to God promising Abraham a great bloodline through Isaac.  Our actions our like this, ultimately tracing back to a “being-called” without rhyme or reason. Why am I called to give to the poor yet not veganism? Here are some key passages:

One can understand why Kierkegaard chose, for his title, the words of a great Jewish convert, Paul, when it came to meditating on the still Jewish experience of a secret, hidden, separate, absent, or mysterious God, the one who decides, without revealing his reasons, to demand of Abraham that most cruel, impossible, and untenable gesture: to offer his son Isaac as a sacrifice. All that goes on in secret. God keeps silent about his reasons. Abraham does also, and the book is not signed by Kierkegaard, but by Johannes de Silentio (“a poetic person who only exists among poets,” Kierkegaard writes in the margin of his text [Pap. IV B 79, Fear and Trembling, 243]).  Derrida, Jacques. The Gift of Death, Second Edition & Literature in Secret (Religion and Postmodernism) (pp. 58-59). The University of Chicago Press. Kindle Edition.

Day and night, at every instant, on all the Mount Moriahs of this world, I am doing that, raising my knife over what I love and must love, over the other, to this or that other to whom I owe absolute fidelity, incommensurably. Abraham is faithful to God only in his treachery, in the betrayal of his own, and in the betrayal of the uniqueness of each one of them, exemplified here in his only beloved son. He would not be able to opt for fidelity to his own, or to his son, unless he were to betray the absolute other: God, if you wish… By preferring what I am doing here and now, simply by giving it my time and attention, by giving priority to my work or my activity as a citizen or professorial and professional philosopher, writing and speaking here in a public language, French in my case, I am perhaps fulfilling my duty. But I am sacrificing and betraying at every moment all my other obligations: my obligations to the other others whom I know or don’t know, the billions of my fellows [semblables] (without mentioning the animals that are even more other than my fellows) who are dying of starvation or sickness. I betray my fidelity or my obligations to other citizens, to those who don’t speak my language and to whom I neither speak nor respond, to each of those who listen or read, and to whom I neither respond nor address myself in the proper manner, that is to say in a singular manner (this for the so-called public space to which I sacrifice my so-called private space), thus also to those I love in private, my own, my family, my sons, each of whom is the only son I sacrifice to the other, every one being sacrificed to every one else in this land of Moriah that is our habitat every second of every day. This is not just a figure of style or an effect of rhetoric. According to 2 Chronicles, chapters 3 and 8, the place where the sacrifice of Abraham or of Isaac (and it is the sacrifice of both of them, it is the gift of death one makes to the other in putting oneself to death, mortifying oneself in order to make a gift of this death as a sacrificial offering to God) is said to have occurred, this place where death is given or offered, is the place where Solomon decided to build the House of the Lord in Jerusalem, as well as the place where God appeared to Solomon’s father, David.  Derrida, Jacques. The Gift of Death, Second Edition & Literature in Secret (Religion and Postmodernism) (p. 69-70). The University of Chicago Press. Kindle Edition.

I can respond to the one (or to the One), that is to say to the other, only by sacrificing to that one the other. I am responsible to any one (that is to say to the other) only by failing in my responsibilities to all the others, to the ethical or political generality. And I can never justify this sacrifice, I must always hold my peace about it. Whether I want to or not, I will never be able to justify the fact that I prefer or sacrifice any one (any other) to the other. I will always be in secret, held to secrecy in respect of this, for nothing can be said about it. What binds me to singularities, to this one or that one, male or female, rather than that one or this one, remains finally unjustifiable (this is Abraham’s hyperethical sacrifice), as unjustifiable as the infinite sacrifice I make at each moment. These singularities represent others, a wholly other form of alterity: one other or some other persons, but also places, animals, languages. How would you ever justify the fact that you sacrifice all the cats in the world to the cat that you feed at home every day for years, whereas other cats die of hunger at every instant? Not to mention other people?  Derrida, Jacques. The Gift of Death, Second Edition & Literature in Secret (Religion and Postmodernism) (p. 71). The University of Chicago Press. Kindle Edition.

In short God says to Abraham: I can see right away [à l’instant] that you have understood what absolute duty toward the unique one means, that it means responding where there is no reason to be asked for or given; I see that not only have you understood that as an idea, but that—and here lies responsibility—you have acted on it, you have put it into effect, you were ready to carry it out at this very instant (God stops him at the instant when there is no more time, where time is no more given, as if Abraham had already killed Isaac: the concept of the instant is always indispensable): thus you had already acted on it, you are absolute responsibility, you had the courage to behave like a murderer in the eyes of the world and of your loved ones, in the eyes of morality, politics, and of the generality of the general or of your kind [du générique]. And you had even renounced hope. Abraham is thus at the same time the most moral and the most immoral, the most responsible and the most irresponsible of men, absolutely irresponsible because he is absolutely responsible, absolutely irresponsible in the face of men and his family, and in the face of the ethical, because he responds absolutely to absolute duty, disinterestedly and without hoping for a reward, without knowing why yet keeping it secret; answering to God and before God. He recognizes neither debt nor duty to his fellows because he is in a relationship with God—a relationship without relation because God is absolutely transcendent, hidden, and secret, not giving any reason he can share in exchange for this doubly given death, not sharing anything in this dissymmetrical covenant. Abraham considers himself to be all square. He acts as if he were discharged of his duty toward his fellows, his son, and humankind; but he continues to love them. He must love them and also owe them everything in order to be able to sacrifice them. Without being so, then, he nevertheless feels absolved of his duty toward his family, toward the human species [le genre humain] and the generality of the ethical, absolved by the absolute of a unique duty that binds him to God the one. Absolute duty absolves him of every debt and releases him from every duty. Absolute ab-solution.  Derrida, Jacques. The Gift of Death, Second Edition & Literature in Secret (Religion and Postmodernism) (p. 73). The University of Chicago Press. Kindle Edition.

Derrida says in our decisions, there is never enough time, precedence, information, etc., and there might always be unintended violence.  He gives the example of the hedgehog “compelled by whatever reasons” to cross the road when suddenly he senses danger and does what he always does and rolls into a protective ball.  It would have been better to keep going, because a car squishes him, and it would have been better not to cross the road at all.  Jacques Derrida discusses the hedgehog metaphor in his 1988 essay “Che cos’è la poesia?” (translated into English as “What Is Poetry?” by Peggy Kamuf).

The key passage, in Kamuf’s English translation, reads as follows:

“You ask me what ‘poetry’ is. I have forgotten. And to respond to this request, to this demand, which has the form of a prayer, I will no doubt have to learn by heart what I have forgotten. But to learn by heart is to forget, letter by letter, word by word, little by little. […] A poem, I never sign(s) it. The other sign(s). No poem without accident, no poem that does not open itself like a wound, but no poem that is not also just as wounding. You will call poem a silent incantation, the aphonic wound that, of you, from you, I want to learn by heart. It thus takes place, essentially, without one’s having to do it or make it: it lets itself be done, without activity, without work, in the most sober pathos, a stranger to all production, especially to creation. The poem falls to me, benediction, coming of (or from) the other. Very ancient word, in my blood. Brief, elliptical by vocation, as close as possible to proper nomination, it says, sings, rhythmizes the cadence of blessing. […] The poem is a hedgehog. It rolls itself up into a ball, its arrows held at the ready, turns its pointed signs toward the outside. Exposed, naked, vulnerable, yet at the same time singularly aggressive and pointed. And for that very reason, it may get itself run over, just so, the hérisson, istrice in Italian, in English, hedgehog. It crosses the roadway, it entrusts itself to the accident on the path of destinality.”

The principle of reason says everything has a reason: to be means to stand in relation to a ground.  Heidegger notes The Principle of Reason, “in Leibniz’s sense, a ratio sufficiens, a sufficient reason, isn’t at all a ground capable of supporting a being so that it doesn’t straightaway fall into nothing. A sufficient reason is one that reaches and offers to beings that which puts them in the position of fulfilling their full essence, that is, perfectio. ” Hence, the addressing of something as something (else) is excluded in Antisthenes doctrine. Plato, in the Sophist, called Antisthenes doctrine “the most laughable, katagelastotata (252b8),” because it denied that something was to be understood by appealing to something beyond the thing itself, while Antisthenes himself tacitly always already encounters the entity through the lenses of a whole slew of ontological structures that go beyond the mere entity at hand, such as: einai/ Being, choris/ separate from, ton allown/the others, and kath auto/in itself.  I encounter the dog ‘as’ not me, for instance.  The only manner Antisthenes allows for addressing things is by tautological naming, man is man. In this regard, Antisthenes denied the possibility of delimiting the essential content of a thing in a definition, because the definition is macros, containing many words, so it attempts to exhibit one thing in terms of many things, in that the thing itself as a one is not addressed but rather is addressed in terms of what it is not. This is what Heidegger says Aristotle accepted as the positive content of Antisthenes thesis, that a being cannot be properly exhibited in a definition.

But Angelus Silesius says a rose is without a why.  It blooms because it blooms.  God/Reason/reasons compel; in the sense a catholic exorcist might invoke about his godman Jesus to the unclean possessing spirit: “The power of Christ compels you to leave this poor person.”  However, beyond supported and ground there is something else, what Plato called Khora and I talked a bit about HERE.

Derrida said

what can be said about Abraham’s relation to God can be said about my relation without relation to every other (one) as every (bit) other [tout autre comme tout autre], in particular my relation to my neighbor or my loved ones who are as inaccessible to me, as secret, and as transcendent as Jahweh.  Derrida, Jacques. The Gift of Death, Second Edition & Literature in Secret (Religion and Postmodernism) (p. 78). The University of Chicago Press. Kindle Edition.

This being called is monstrous, simply showing up without rhyme or reason and compelling us.  Why are we not called by the suffering of a chicken though our vegan friend is?  Why am I called to be a teacher but mt friend wasn’t?

In a theological sense, this is God calling Abraham to an act of ultimate faithfulness, even if the exact verb isn’t qara’ at the outset. The narrative underscores themes of divine testing and provision, influencing Jewish, Christian, and broader religious thought on vocation and obedience.  In the New Testament (written in Koine Greek), the concept appears as klēsis (“calling” or “invitation”), from the verb kaleō (“to call, summon, or name”). This is used in passages like Ephesians 4:1 or Romans 11:29 to denote a divine call to faith, purpose, or station in life—directly influencing the biblical English translations that popularized “calling” in a vocational context. Kaleō likely stems from Proto-Indo-European kel- (“to shout”).  The Old Testament equivalent is qara’ (“to call, proclaim, summon, or name”), a Semitic root appearing over 700 times in contexts like God’s call to prophets (e.g., Isaiah 6:8 or Jeremiah 1:4-5). While not Indo-European like the Greek and Latin roots, it conveys similar ideas of divine appointment or summons, which carried over into Christian theology and English biblical phrasing.

The English word “calling” itself derives from the verb “call,” which entered Middle English around the mid-13th century from Old Norse kalla (“to cry loudly, summon, or name”), ultimately tracing back to Proto-Germanic kall- and Proto-Indo-European gal- (“to call, shout”). Its specific sense as a “vocation, profession, or divine summons to a particular role” emerged in the 1550s, heavily influenced by biblical usage, particularly the translation of 1 Corinthians 7:20 (“Let every man abide in the same calling wherein he was called”).

Who is to say what side one may fall on in the abortion debate, whether the pro-life or pro-choices reasons, arguments, analogies or counter analogies call/speak to you/resonate with you. Lawyers know this, where arguments are developed after a side is chosen, be it plaintiff/defendant; prosecutor/defense.  Judges know this too, and so we have conservative vs liberal judges who decide before the case is heard and then try to justify after the fact.  Hope you don’t get a hanging judge!  Similarly, conservative vs liberal politics do the same, coming up with examples/analogies and counter-analogies after the fact, and so we have MSNOW (formerly MSNBC) vs Fox news interpretations of the political phenomena. 

We might ask an English Language and Literature student what reading of a story/poem “speaks to them” the most: feminist/Marxist/psychoanalytic/etc.  Or, we might ask a Christian which gift of the spirit they emphasize.

The same event may appear as demonic or as holy, depending on how it speaks to you: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q-9JpRytCx0

Regarding to phenomena speaking to us, Martin Heidegger discusses the “ear” in his philosophical works, particularly in the context of hearing (Hören) as a fundamental mode of being and understanding. He famously inverts the common-sense view of perception in a passage from his essay “The Way to Language” (collected in On the Way to Language), where he writes: “We do not hear because we have ears. We have ears because we hear.”  Niagara Falls may appear “as” a wonder of the world to a tourist, but as noise pollution to a local resident.  A mansion might appear as houseness incarnate to one person, but as gawdy to the next person, speaking to them in different ways.  In hearing, I might hear a living thing at my feet in the forest only to look down and see I mis-took rustling dead leaves in the wind as a living thing.  We are not ears hearing sounds, but listeners hearing violins.  Derrida notes

If God didn’t send a lamb as a substitute or an angel to hold back his arm, there would still be an upright prosecutor, preferably with expertise in Middle Eastern violence, to accuse him of infanticide or first-degree murder; and if a psychiatrist who was both a little bit psychoanalyst and a little bit journalist were to declare that the father was “responsible,” carrying on as if psychoanalysis had done nothing to upset the order of discourse on intention, conscience, good will, etc., the criminal father would have no chance of getting away with it. He might claim that the wholly other had ordered him to do it, and perhaps in secret (how would he know that?), in order to test his faith, but it would make no difference. Everything is organized to insure that this man would be condemned by any civilized society.  Derrida, Jacques. The Gift of Death, Second Edition & Literature in Secret (Religion and Postmodernism) (p. 85). The University of Chicago Press. Kindle Edition.

We think of the death of Socrates as noble because it discloses a place where society can improve, but leaves everything else untouched.

On the other hand, the smooth functioning of such a society, the monotonous complacency [ronronnement] of its discourses on morality, politics, and the law, and the very exercise of its rights (whether public, private, national, or international), are in no way perturbed by the fact that, because of the structure of the laws of the market that society has instituted and controls, because of the mechanisms of external debt and other comparable inequities, that same “society” puts to death or (but failing to help someone in distress accounts for only a minor difference) allows to die of hunger and disease tens of millions of children (those relatives or fellow humans that ethics or the discourse of the rights of man refer to) without any moral or legal tribunal ever being considered competent to judge such a sacrifice, the sacrifice of the other to avoid being sacrificed oneself. Not only does such a society participate in this incalculable sacrifice, it actually organizes it. The smooth functioning of its economic, political, and legal order, the smooth functioning of its moral discourse and good conscience, presuppose the permanent operation of this sacrifice. And such a sacrifice is not even invisible, for from time to time the television displays—while keeping them at a distance—a series of intolerable images of it, and a few voices are raised to bring it all to our attention. But those images and voices are completely powerless to induce the slightest effective change in the situation, to assign the least responsibility, to furnish anything other than alibis. That this order is founded upon a bottomless chaos (the abyss or open mouth) is something that will necessarily be brought home one day to those who just as necessarily forget the same. Derrida, Jacques. The Gift of Death, Second Edition & Literature in Secret (Religion and Postmodernism) (p. 85-6). The University of Chicago Press. Kindle Edition.

Derrida wants to move beyond Heideggerian uncovering of the hidden, to unravelling the coded, as we see with the noise of a language we don’t know.

For example, writing that I can’t decipher (a letter in Chinese or Hebrew, or simply some undecipherable handwriting) remains perfectly visible in spite of being in the main sealed. It isn’t hidden but it is encoded or encrypted.  Derrida, Jacques. The Gift of Death, Second Edition & Literature in Secret (Religion and Postmodernism) (p. 89). The University of Chicago Press. Kindle Edition.

For example, Schmitt has a literal reading of Jesus’ Love of Enemy passage in Matthew that needs to be further decoded.  Derrida writes

For it is precisely in this passage that he says, “Love your enemies . . . pray for them which . . . persecute you,” etc. (Diligite inimicos vestros / agapate tous ekhthrous humōn) (5:44). It is more necessary than ever to quote the Latin or Greek, if only in consideration of the remark made by Carl Schmitt when, in chapter 3 of The Concept of the Political, he emphasizes the fact that inimicus is not hostis in Latin and ekhthros is not polemios in Greek. This allows him to conclude that Christ’s teaching concerns the love that we must show to our private enemies, to those we would be tempted to hate through personal or subjective passion, and does not suppose that love is owed to a public enemy.  Derrida, Jacques. The Gift of Death, Second Edition & Literature in Secret (Religion and Postmodernism) (p. 102). The University of Chicago Press. Kindle Edition.

Derrida responds

But one can doubt that, just as we can find ourselves perplexed by the reading of “love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” For the text says, Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbor, and hate thine enemy.  But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you. (5:43–44) When Jesus says “Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbor, and hate thine enemy,” he refers in particular to Leviticus 19:15–18, at least in the first part of the sentence (“Thou shalt love thy neighbor”), if not the second (“hate thine enemy”). Indeed, there it is said, “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.” But in the first place, vengeance is already condemned in Leviticus and the text doesn’t say “thou shalt hate thine enemy.” In the second place, since it defines the neighbor in the sense of fellow creature [congénère], as a member of the same ethnic group (’amith), we are already in the sphere of the political in Schmitt’s sense. It would seem difficult to keep the potential opposition between one’s neighbor and one’s enemy within the sphere of the private.  The passage from Leviticus sets forth a certain concept of justice. God is speaking to Moses, to whom he has just given a series of prescriptions concerning sacrifice and payment, and, it needs to be underlined, he forbids revenge: I am the Lord. Ye shall do no unrighteousness in judgment: thou shalt not respect the person of the poor, nor honor the person of the mighty: but in righteousness shalt thou judge thy neighbor. Thou shalt not go up and down as a talebearer among the people: neither shalt thou stand against the blood of thy neighbor: I am the Lord.  Thou shalt not hate thy brother in thine heart: thou shalt in any wise rebuke thy neighbor, and not suffer sin upon him. Thou shalt not avenge, nor bear any grudge against the children of thy people, but thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself: I am the Lord. (Leviticus 19:14–18) If one’s neighbor is here one’s congener, someone from my community, from the same people or the same nation (’amith), then the person who can be opposed to him or her (which is not what Leviticus, but indeed what the Gospel does) is the non-neighbor not as private enemy but as foreigner, as member of another nation, community, or people. That runs counter to Schmitt’s interpretation: the frontier between inimicus and hostis would be more permeable than he wants to believe. At stake here is the conceptual conceptual and practical possibility of founding politics or of forming a rigorous concept of political specificity by means of some dissociation: not only that between public and private but also between public existence and the passion or shared community affect that links each of its members to the others, as with members of the same family, the same ethnic, national, or linguistic community, etc. Is national or nationalist affect, or community affect, political in itself, or not? Is it public or private according to Schmitt?  Derrida, Jacques. The Gift of Death, Second Edition & Literature in Secret (Religion and Postmodernism) (pp. 104-105). The University of Chicago Press. Kindle Edition.

And of course Schmitt is overcome here because Matthew notes to love enemy is to bless those who persecute you, as loving, forgiving Stephen in Acts.  It goes along with “turn the other cheek.  In New Testament studies, both “love your enemy” (Matthew 5:44; Luke 6:27) and “turn the other cheek” (Matthew 5:39; Luke 6:29) are considered Q sayings, as they appear in parallel in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke but not in Mark.

Perhaps Derrida’s most quoted and famous assertion, which appears in an essay on Rousseau in his book Of Grammatology (1967), is the statement that “there is no outside-text” (il n’y a pas de hors-texte). Critics of Derrida have been often accused of having mistranslated the phrase in French to suggest he had written “Il n’y a rien en dehors du texte” (“There is nothing outside the text”) and of having widely disseminated this translation to make it appear that Derrida is suggesting that nothing exists but words.  Derrida once explained that this assertion, “which for some has become a sort of slogan, in general so badly understood, of deconstruction … means nothing else: there is nothing outside context. In this form, which says exactly the same thing, the formula would doubtless have been less shocking.”

In Literature in Secret Derrida says:

According to this third movement from the beginning of Fear and Trembling, Abraham thus asks forgiveness for being prepared to make the worst sacrifice within the perspective of fulfilling his duty toward God. He asks God to forgive him for having consented consented to do what God himself had ordered him to do. Forgive me, my God, for listening to you, is what he says in essence. That is a paradox that we shouldn’t stop reflecting on. In particular it reveals a double secret law, a double constraint that is inherent in the vocation of forgiveness; something that never shows itself as such but always lets itself be understood: I don’t ask you forgiveness for betraying, wounding, or doing harm to you, for lying to you or breaking an oath, I don’t ask forgiveness for a misdeed, on the contrary I ask you to forgive me for listening to you, too faithfully, for too much fidelity to my sworn faith, for loving you, for preferring you, for choosing you and letting myself be chosen by you, for responding to you, for having said “here I am,” and as a result, for having sacrificed the other to you, my other other, my other other in the person of my other absolute preference, my own, singular and plural, the best of what is mine, the best of my own ones, here Isaac. Isaac represents not only the one whom Abraham loved the most among his own, but also promise itself; he was the child of promise (18–21).  It was that promise itself that he almost sacrificed, and that is again why he asks God for forgiveness, forgiveness for the worst: For consenting to put an end to the future to come and hence to everything that gives breath to faith, to a faith or oath that is sworn, to the fidelity of every covenant.  As though Abraham, speaking in his heart of hearts, were saying to God, forgive me for preferring the secret that binds me to you rather than the secret that binds me to the other other, to each and every other, for a secret love binds me to the one as to the other, and to mine.  Derrida, Jacques. The Gift of Death, Second Edition & Literature in Secret (Religion and Postmodernism) (pp. 125-126). The University of Chicago Press. Kindle Edition.

Abraham asks forgiveness from God for obeying God, and keeps a secret of that he is doing from Isaac, in effect doing the most he can from absolving God in the eyes of the world since in the face of God’s apparent maliciousness or indifference in the face of suffering, the first thing the apologist does is to contort into a way of thinking that absolves God.  Abraham thus takes on the weight of loving God to prefer that most recent mandate to kill his most beloved son and cancel out his love for a great future bloodline.

God saw the evil in man’s heart and realized he made a mistake and so sent a flood.   Through the justness of Noah and his family God made a covenant not only to man but all living things that did not have the malevolent hearts of man (something we break every time we abuse an animal) never to mass slaughter like that again.  God punishes man with the flood because God erred in how he created man.

There is nothing more sacred to Abraham than God, not his son and not his name, and so Abraham’s decision to kill Isaac is an absolute desacralization of the world. 

Passions

What is nearer to us than things as examples/exemplars?  My Kia Sorrento is an example of a car.  My disfunction from childhood abuse is an example of ptsd.  On the other hand, if we suppose Triplets in an abusive home, perhaps one grows up with terrible ptsd, another unaffected, the third stronger for it (that which does not kill me makes me stronger).  The suffering one is thus not an “example” of ptsd, since the conditions may lead to the disorder just well as not.  The unconscious is not causal in the scientific sense that heat always causes water to boil.

But is the Factory door not an example of a thing?  What is a factory door?  Is it a gateway to toil, or lovely freedom on leaving?  Is it broken, or squeaky?  Is it possibility for someone applying for a job, or memories for a retiree leaving for the last time?  What is it for a film crew coming to do a safety video, or an executive coming to do an inspection?  We might ask the same of houseness, whether the mansion appears as houseness incarnate, with houseness merely present in the average house, and deficient in the old shack.  Or does the mansion appear gawdy to you and the shack quaint?  Does Niagara Falls appear as a wonder of the world or noise pollution?

Heidegger asks what are beings from the point of view as being predictable and controllable? 

Natural bodies are now only that which they show themselves to be in the domain of projection. Things show themselves now only in the relations of places and time-points and in the measures of mass and working forces.  Because projection, according to its sense, posits a uniformity of all bodies according to space and time and relations of motion, it also simultaneously makes possible and demands as an essential mode of determining things a completely uniform measure, i.e., numerical measurement.  Specifically, the res extensa or extended substances are re-presented in terms of shape and motion as what is “really real” in them, location and mobility, that which makes the res extensa predictable and controllable.  For Descartes this made us “the masters and possessors of nature (Descartes, Opp. VI, 61 ff).” 

Are conservative examples and analogies “proofs,” or rather just follow from one illustrating a conservative spin or take, like with a conservative judge, conservative politicians?  Can you play a role giving conservative and then liberal takes of the same event?  Fourth grade students learn to defend both sides of a debate like school uniforms. Derrida says

“We can never be sure of having put an end to this very old children’s game in which all the discourses, philosophical or not, which have ever inspired deconstructions are entangled by the performative fiction which consists in saying, starting up the game again, ‘take precisely this example (Derrida, Passions, 18).