Abstract
Abstract I remember a late summer afternoon of 1971 in a deserted inn somewhere in the Danish countryside near Aarhus. Rudi Dutschke and the visitors to his new home in exile, Ernst Bloch, his wife, Carola, and I, had driven there to find a quiet refuge for conversation. As we talked through coffee after coffee, oblivious to the lengthening shadows, linked through the threads of our European and North American histories, aware of the claims of global humanity, and in solidarity with voices from the past and intimations of the future, we were four but we were also a trans-generational multitude.
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