Crimson staff writer
Colton A. Valentine
Last summer, I spent a month traveling alone, and two catastrophic events took place. In Belgrade I ran out of books—except for Martin Heidegger’s easy-breezy beach-read “Being and Time”—and in Sarajevo I got food poisoning. This meant that I spent my last 72 hours in the Balkans alone in my room, vomiting garlic-soaked lamb’s head, with nothing to do but read Heidegger. This was a terrible experience. But in the weird interplay between being alone and “Being and Time,” I came to understand why it was terrible—and that it might be for a good reason.